The Bird and his Cage
by Setsuna Mudo
Summary: Chronicals Robin's spiral into Slade's Apprentice, son, and significant other all at once. What if the Titan's rescue of Robin in Apprentice pt2 had failed? SladexRobin slash. See profile for much better summary...
1. A Father Son Talk

The Bird and His Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. slight SxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.

Disclaimor: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material posessions. I like my material posessions...

_Robin's POV_

Darkness. Swirling around me. I can't breathe in here. Suffocation. Yet it is such a big place. A lonely place. So large and lonely that it's driving me mad. I can't venture far without his assistance or I'll get lost. I've only been here for a week and I can literally feel my sanity being stolen away by that mad man.

Gears and pendulums making sounds all day and all night, keeping me awake. Like the gears turning in my disturbing captor's mind. Scraping, turning, clinking metallic solunds. So that I feel like he is with me even when he is not. He knows this and probably gets a kick out of it. I'm not amused.

I get a simple cot to sleep on in a large room that I have not yet dared to explore. There are showers and rations; like a military facility gone horribly wrong. The only lights available are huge spotlights that come on unexpectedly, obviously controlled by the master mind himself.

It all started when Slade tricked us with a false Cronaton Detonator; a device that can stop time. The team didn't want me to go; they knew that I had issues with Slade. I went anyway, but on the way I got attacked by Slade's henchman, Cinderblock. I defeated him easily and went on to fight Slade. My team members still don't know that the Detonator was a fake and that Slade had infact injected Microbes into each their blood streams that can be acivated by the push of a psychopath's button.

In short, I have to do whatever Slade tells me to. Or at least, that was his plan all along. I still don't understand why he chose me, though. I may be the most skillful hand to hand fighter of the team and the most agile, but wouldn't Slade rather have the help of someone who has super powers?

I _will_ discover the plans that he is concocting. I won't let him take away my humanity; and I will see my friends soon. I miss them already. I'll be strong for them; strong for Bruce.

Suddenly I hear a door creak. I spring up from the cot, at the same time drawing my escrima staff, ready to face my nemisis, but instead I see an old gentleman staring at me with an emotionless face. He's dressed in a black suit that shines in the darkness and has white hair and a curled mustache.

"Who are you?" I am relieved that it isn't Slade, but still wary.

"My name is William Wintergreen, and I am Master Wilson's personal aid." He says through a thick British accent.

"Oh... Sorry for pointing this at you.." I dissipate my staff and put it back into my utility belt.

He seems to disreguard my apology right away. "Master Wilson requests your attendence in the main controle room this evening. He requests that you take a shower, and then change into this," And with that he hands me a package, tightly wrapped in deep orange colored material, "The showers are down the hall and on the right."

Come to think of it, I haven't seen Slade face to face in a long time. Inside this place night and day is a mystery to me, so I can't tell how long it's been.

"I am now your aid, so do not hesitate to request something of me."

"Umm.. How do I do that in such a huge place like this?"

" There is a small button on the right bracer of your new uniform. It rings me and tells me of your location." He replies, cut and dry.

Still confused... "Oh... okay..." Wait. Did he just say new uniform?

I look down at the package, and I'm filled with dread. I already know what it is.

"I shall make some tea for the two of you, then." And with that, he was gone, the door was shut, and the darkness consumes me once again.

((later))

I arrive at the shower room. There are no tiles like a normal bathroom, but instead a weird rocky material on all of the floors, walls, and ceilings. It has a dark blackness to it. It is a sort of hall with showers on either sides.

I can feel him watching me. Whether he's watching me through hidden cameras or whatever, no matter where I go, even the bathroom, I feel like I'm being watched. It makes me nervous to take my clothes off, but I do anyway.

My head darting around, trying to spy anything, I regretfully snap off my utility belt and drop it on the floor, along with my pants and the rest of my clothes. The mask stays. Feeling strange being naked in a foriegn place, I wrap a towel around my waist and then I walk into the closest shower and I find that there is a huge, floor to ceiling mirror.

That's... odd...

Never the less I turn on the water and suddenly it is stinging hot. How can Slade handle this temperature? Despite sinfully hot water my body gets somewhat used to the temperature and I close my eyes and get lost in my thoughts.

I miss the Titans. I wonder if they miss me. Are they trying to find me? At what point will they give up the search? I wonder if they've already given up trying. I can't depend on them to rescue me though. I can't depend on anyone anymore, only myself. I have to think that I have no one; so that I can fool myself into thinking that I have nothing to lose.

I just have to get that controle. I have to think of a way to get at it, or it could cost me my life.

"That's the spirit, Robin..."

As if by remote, the shower water turns off and all that is left is a massive cloud of steam.

I stiffen up with fear, my throat clenching, my mind filled with terror. I feel his arms wrap around me; I shudder as he presses himself up against me. I'm defenseless; No smoke bombs, no weapons. My agility is worthless in such a confined space. I curse myself for locking the door behind me. Then how did he get in?

The mirror reflects us; He's playing a sick game, making me watch my own vulnerability. I struggle to free myself, but he just holds me tighter, and I feel his hands begin to wander, one reaching to my face and the other in the opposite direction...

" Oh, my little bird... There's no escape from here as long as I have you within my grasp..."

"What are you going to do to me?" My voice sounds like I'm emotionless but inside fear is welling up in my throat. I hear his deep, soft, sinister laughter in my ear and I know he feels me shivering.

"Whatever I want to, pretty bird. I could kill you right now if I wanted to..." His hand in an instant is around my neck, clenching tightly, killing my wind pipes. Pain courses through me all the way down to my stomach.

But suddenly the pain is gone and the hand that was once had a vice grip on my neck was gently stroking my face-- as gentle as metal gloves can be. The coldness of them only makes me shiver more.

"Or I could rip off this towel and..."

His other hand slides down my waist and grips the towel. The worst wave of terror yet binds me up as he pushes me up against the mirror and covers me with his body and mass.

"Well, you're a mature boy... From the look on your face, you know what I could do to you..."

I can't breathe, the pressue he's putting on me, My head's spinning and I'm trying to block out the thing nudging my backside.

"I'm not like you..." I gasp out.

"That's why I like you so... We obviously think alike. Vulgarly."

I'm dumbfounded and disgusted at the same time. Not only at him, but at myself. What he's turning me into, what he's making me think about. His head leans down further to whisper in my ear.

"But I won't do that yet... Not here, not now... That is a moment I would very much like to savor, and only when you're willing...for then you will have severed the last string tying you to the life you once had, and you will finally, truly become my apprentice."

Suddenly his weight is lifted and backs away. Clutching at my towel I tie it tighter around my waist in a form of defiance. He chuckles.

"Your opposition is admirable but foolish, for soon you'll see the world through my eyes..." He turns to open the stall door and leave; I try to lunge after him, but my knees buckle and all I can do is fall to the hard ground, my eyes slowly closing. As my consciousness fades away I see him loom over me.

"Ah, yes, I almost forgot. During our little father son talk, my mask was Immiting a sleeping gas into the air... To make sure you didn't try to oppose me while we shared this special moment together... but Robin... I'm looking forward to seeing you this evening. We have much more to discuss... and don't forget to wear your new uniform... I made it especially for you..."

In the clouds of steam he disapears and I fall into a restless sleep... in which my only dreams are of a beautiful young girl with flowing red hair and beautiful green eyes... who magically takes all of my pains and sorrows away...

F.I.N.

Well...that shower scene went a little rampant... But I couldn't help myself. X3 I'll write more if I get a positive response, so please review it!

P.S. Wintergreen pwns...


	2. Sweet Manipulation

The Bird and his Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.

Disclaimor: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material posessions. I like my material posessions...

Please do not take or archive without permission.

Notes: thanks for the awesome reviews! You have made me a happy little muffin burger. Hmm... Slade's POV comes in, and I totally went brain dead trying to think of in character things for him to say. ugh. The pain. I don't think I expressed him as well as I should have but I guess whoever reads this can be the judge of that.

_masquerade_ -n

A costume party at which masks are worn; a masked ball.

A disguise or false outward show; a pretense: _a masquerade of humility._

An involved scheme; a charade.

_Robin's POV_

"Robin? Robin, wake up! There's trouble! We need you! Robin where are you...?" Shining, expressive green eyes framed by the deepest color red you've ever seen stare down at me filled with urgency. She's waiting for me to come home... and I know that I'm the one responsible for making her cry...

"I'm disappointed, Dick. I thought I trained you to be stronger than this. Keep in mind that the bird is not defined by it's cage, but by how beautiful a song it can sing..." Pitch black eyes stare down at me from beyond a onyx mask; a billowing, tattered cape surrounds me, and all at once it bursts into a mirage of fluttering bats, flooding the night sky so that even the stars are blindfolded. I feel safe, yet at the same time humbled by the magnificence that I can't hope to ever achieve.

"Richard," This time the voice is gentler, and I can feel strong hands shaking my shoulders, "It's time for the performance... it's your show... your chance to shine..." A blur of a man dressed in brightly colored tights, with a robust beard and dark hair keeps shaking me, and his voice and touch induces a feeling of safety and security that only a father could provide; but I don't want to wake up from my afternoon nap on the trampoline...

"You could have had your chance to be the star of the show, Richard. you blew it."

"Father!--ugh... my head..." I awake to a stinging feeling in the back of my head as well as the feeling that my reality is submerged under water. Gasping, I rest my back against the fogged up mirror, recounting Slade's surprise intrusion.

Slade-- he'd used sleeping gas to weaken me so that I couldn't break free from him. The question that haunts me is, could I have escaped even if he hadn't? That's what scares me. His arms were like steel cables-- his weight and strength too heavy for me escape from. Why hadn't Slade attacked me to begin with? Slade must like mind games more than I imagined...

I was vulnerable. Disgustingly so. I hate admitting that I'm afraid. I'm supposed to be a fearless leader, but Slade has a knack for pointing out each and every one of my flaws.

I guess you could say that I fear fear itself. I'm afraid of not being in controle; and in this place, that is the last thing I am-- unless I can get hold of that controller. That won't be easy when it's strapped onto his arm...

The worst part was that he was enjoying himself while violating me at the same time. No one had ever touched me like that before-- It was incredibly new and just the thought of it made Robin's head start spinning again. He didn't want to think of it. He wouldn't let himself.

_... only when you're willing...for then you will have severed the last string tying you to the life you once had, and you will finally, truly become my apprentice..._

A sudden crashing wave of anger and self pity washes over me, and my bare hand swings to the side to shatter the mirror behind me.

I'll _never_ be willing...

_Slade's POV_

The grand masquerade is approaching... The time in which the Teen Titans will fall, and Robin will be mine forever; at my side always as we rule over a dark kingdom made only for the two of us...

Of course, my plans from the beginning had been little more than mind games for the young boy; My true intentions always a mystery. Always a threatening image; like water torture... non-lethal to the body but crippling for the mind. His never knowing when I would strike next, but anticipating it with fear and... perhaps excitement?

I had not thought much of the Boy Wonder for a time; but over the course of our engagements I've discovered that I had gravely underestimated the youngling of Batman.

With a few deft movements, the gigantic monitors burst to life, coating the once dank room in artificial light. Four of them showing the progression of my microbes in the remaining Teen Titan's bodies, and the largest one; the figurehead; displaying the caged bird's vital statistics, biometrics, his fighting patterns, Strength and agility progression, personality analyses, and images capturing every new moment in the flight of my sweet, tainted dove.

Indeed I have had access to micro technology for some time now, and it is not difficult to gain access to even more sophisticated technology; such as micro cameras. Since I first met Robin, I have been... intrigued to say the least. But that was all it was in the beginning.

However, I began taking him more seriously when he disguised himself as a vigilante called Red X;

The Robin data disapeared and a file opened displaying a video of Red X fighting the Teen Titans in the Jump City subway.

His determination; ferocious intensity towards me; dark wit and utter dishonesty...The fact that he could so easily hurt and betray his 'friends' with less than a blink of an eye to become closer to me was... amusing... and even arousing... and if I may say, he looks extraordinarily dapper while playing the part of a rogue...

From that day on, I've wanted him, craved him, lusted for him; But I know him all too well. Oh, how easily I could have taken him for myself when I employed the sleeping gas upon him; I had to controle myself from descending upon him then and there... but my endurence and patience will eventually culminate. I know I won't truly get what I want until he is completely without the former influence of his 'friends' and his former mentor; until nothing is left except that raw, exhilarating emotion that I so desire from him, and total devotion for me and no one else.

It will be difficult, and I won't shy away from beating it into the boy if I must... in fact I quite look forward to that part... But for now, I'm content with playing with his mind... making him think things he never has before... disarming him... making him cross the line between good and evil that his former mentor had so painstakingly drawn in his mind... betrayal to all that he has known as righteous and good...

...until the time will be right for me to envelope him in the darkest parts of our deepest passion and our true reign will have begun...

_Robin's POV_

As I snap on the last metal bracer of my new outfit, I feel as though a small part of me has already commited suicide. I look into the cracked mirror; the entire suit is weighted down, heavier than my old one; cleaner, nicer, brand new. I almost like the sight of myself in it. I guess that's the part that died then.

It's creepy though; it fits better than my old one, like it was designed for me down to the smallest detail, not too tight or too loose in any areas. Which makes me wonder what kind of information Slade has about me that would allow him to know my entire body frame by heart...

I'm not going to think about that...

I inspect the new, grey utility belt; not anything like my old one, it's more like a tool belt; an almost exact replica of Batman's. Yet this one is specialized for me; a place for all of my weapons and even some new one bestowed by Slade himself. How does he know I won't use his own weapons against him?

He probably knows. He just doesn't care.

Half an hour later I find myself being led by Wintergreen through a series of passages and large lobbys to the controle room. As I walk down the halls I hear music getting louder as we get closer; I recognize it as Beethoven's Ode to Joy; the crazed, orchestral music gets louder and louder until finally, when we reach the controle room, the music is so over powering it gives me an instant head ache.

My head thumps; the music is quelled slightly but is still playing as an eerie background symphony.

"Why, Robin... what a shame that you don't enjoy my taste in music..." He says in that usual, detached voice of his, although it is unusually platonic. I look up, I can't see him until suddenly one of his trade mark spot lights beams on. He's standing on top of someting resembling a king's throne; only suspended much higher up with a descending stair case.

"It is fitting music... because I _am_ quite joyful this evening..."

He looks taller than ever. I stand at attention; I can't show him any weakness, or he'll win a battle, and be that much closer to winning the war.

A beam of light shines upon me as well until our spot lights merge into one, as if we are the only things that exist in this world. His voice is slow and cunning, but flirtatious as well, which worries me the most.

"I see you're wearing my new uniform..._very_ obedient of you... I was getting tired of looking at that canary cape... all of those disgusting bright colors... this one suits you _much_ better."

He begins to circle around me intimidatingly like a shark. I feel a cold, metal finger begin to trace my jaw line over and over in an affectionate way. "And what strong, handsome features you have..."

I don't say anything in response; what does he expect me to say, 'thanks so do you'? Despite my silence he keeps talking.

"As you may have noticed, your utility belt is the same as mine now; were you aware that Batman had until now supplied you with downgraded weapons compared to his own? He was probably not confident in your skills enough to let you use lethal weaponry; but I am..."

His words bite at me because they are so full of truth. Shutting my eyes and clenching my fists I try to concentrate on his words, but not their meaning.

"It gives you so much more potential when you are not being held back... personally, I think that Batman was afraid that you'd surpass him some day... that's why he held you back for so long, even as you are growing into a strapping young man..."

I know Slade is manipulating me with compliments, but part of my mind doesn't care. Being compared to Batman didn't happen every day; in fact it was what I'd always wanted; to be as good as Batman; to no longer be in his shadow. Slade's words gut me like a fish.

"You were always in his shadow, you know...you no longer have to be once you've embraced my way of things... you could even defeat him... show him hands on that you're no longer his little boy wonder anymore..." He whispers, and I notice that he's become startlingly close to me.

"Maybe then..." I hear myself whisper. My mind's in turmoil; Slade's words are true, but what has happened to my determination to not listen to them? I think a huge chunk of me has just jumped off the side of a bridge.

Out of nowhere he grabs my chin and makes me look into his one intense eye, the color of blue fire. "What do you say...?" Ode to Joy still plays in the background, pressuring me.

I can't admit to him that his view makes sense to me; otherwise, he'll win. He probably knows this; I hate to admit it, but he probably knows everything about my thoughts even before I think them; spinning cunning webs of truth around me.

"From now on I will be giving you a set of tests to help you get used to your new range of weaponry and help prepare you for the final exam."

"Final exam...?" I ask, looking up to him. Because of the angle of the spotlights above us, I can see through the grates of his mask, a faint outline of his lips. I want so much to grab at the mask and see him; to know him, to know of everything he is and has ever been. I realize that that is the only way I will ever find the strength to defeat him; to know him.

"Yes. The final exam that will bring the Teen Titans falling to their knees before me; before you... before us... The training begins tomorrow... so you had better get some good rest..."

In a moment he releases me, backflipping away into the shadows, and his spotlight disapears. Obviously he is not only strong but agile as well despite his size.

"Wintergreen," A voice comes out as the former music dies down, " Show Robin back to his room..."

"Yes, Master Wilson." Soon enough I am following his down the same set of corridors, and behind me, I can hear Slade's fading laughter.

The remote controller that has my friend's lives hanging in the balance is not the problem as I had previously thought; it is only a distraction. True, Slade has controle, but his controle is limited if I obey him.

He knows me; far better than I know myself. I know this and I hate it, but I am too proud to deny it. I know now that brute force is not on my side, as he has the advantage of strength and speed over me; so the only chance I have is to manipulate his mind.

That will be difficult. I hate to admit it so, but he is a genius. But it is obvious that he has feelings for me. Perverted feelings, but feelings none the less. He'll soon let me see the man that lies behind that mask if I only obey for a period of time.

Part of me has no problem with using his fragile feelings against him; but a small part of me, no matter how little a aknowledge it...

wants to return those feelings of perversion...

F.I.N

Oo0 not very subtle, are you Robin? lol when I first published this chapter I forgot the ending notes! Hope you enjoyed it, chapter three will be in work eventually. in the meantime anyone who reads please review! Your reviews keep me writing. X3


	3. Delirium

The Bird and his Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. slight SlxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.

Disclaimor: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material posessions. I like my material posessions...

Please do not take or archive without my permission.

Notes: Hey people. Huzzah for a third part, yes? Perhaps. Starfire's POV arrives! And once again Slade's POV is sadly short. I hope you enjoy the SlxR relationship progression. I personally think this is the most exciting chapter by far. Thankyou for the reviews! Your kind thoughts motivate me. X3

_Robin's POV_

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling that I suppose is there but I've never really seen. I don't sleep very much anymore. The days and nights are beginning to bleed together. I haven't been in the sunlight in a while. I can feel my body begin to get used to living without warmth or comfort.

_That's not true. You have him. If you'd only let him, he'd give you all the warmth and comfort you'd ever need..._

What sort of comfort? Of the heart or of the flesh?

_The first if you'd just let him; the second is inevitable._

My heart belongs to Starfire. Slade's cold and ruthless; he'd never be able to give me what I truly want.

_You always have to do things the hard way, don't you? Waiting for a girl that will never be yours when there's a perfectly sexy older man right in front of you that's more than willing._

I haven't even seen his face... and I'm not ready to give up my fight nor my innocence _nor_ my sexual preference just yet...

_Suit yourself. But have you seen his butt? It's so tight and muscled, and when he walks it--_

Dear God. I'm talking to myself. About Slade's... backside. Another HUGE part of my former self has now died off. I suppose being away from women for a long time can have this effect on you. I'm starting to not trust my thoughts anymore.

Slade told me that I should be up at 5:00 every morning, take a shower, get changed, and report to the sparring chamber. (where ever that may be) and yet, he didn't supply me with an alarm clock nor a map. He really is an insomniac, and he's turning me into one too.

I don't have any sleep wear, so I always end up sleeping in the black boxers that Wintergreen provides along with the new uniforms. What do they have, an assembly line spitting them out?

As best as I can judge the time, I get out of bed only to bump into something new in the room; a new desk-like table, and on top of it a platter of tea, British breads and cheeses, and some sort of soup. Along side it is a fresh uniform.

Obviously Wintergreen has never heard of breakfast before... but the fleeting gesture of kindness is well appreciated and I eat the food faster than Barry Allen ever could. I notice a napkin, and just as I'm about to wipe my mouth with it, I notice that it is not a napkin but a folded up piece of paper, hard to the touch.

Quickly unfolding it, I discover that it is a note. The handwriting is unnaturally curly and elegant.

_Robin,_

_From your quarters, go down the Western corridor; take a right turn after the hall leading to your shower room. Continue down the hall past three doors and take the next door on the right. Continue down this hall past the weighted training room and on your left is the Sparring Chamber. _

_Be there by 5:30 sharp every morning. Every 5 minutes of tardiness will cause your daily exersises to double fold._

_You'd better get going now or you'll be late._

_S.W._

My jaw drops. 5:30? Before I can even think about it, I'm rushing to the shower room, cleaning myself half-assed and getting dressed in the fresh uniform. This definately wasn't what I had in mind when I think Apprentice.

With the speed of Wally West, I begin to run only to almost forget Slade's note. I head down the corridor, reading the note over and over to myself in a panic until after what seems like an eternity of dank corridors I finally find the right door.

Bursting through, I find myself tripping over my own feet only to land before his.

He laughs gently at me. "Good work Robin. That's just the kind of enthusiasm I like." Blushing momentarily, I jump up and stand at attention.

I watch as Slade checks the interior of his wrist in a feminine fashion. "Hmmm... but Robin... you're 5.1 minutes too late.." He says in a deceptively happy tone of voice.

My jaw drops again. I lash out," That isn't fair! I--"

Before I can finish my sentence his steely fist has already knocked the wind out of me and sent me crashing to the floor. He steps over to me and places his steel-toed boot roughly on my stomach, making it even harder to breathe.

"That's the first lesson I have taught you then; life's not always fair. You don't get second chances-"

"Don't you _ever_ lecture me!" I sputter out, painfully aware of how stupid I look right now.

"You can't escape from me, Robin. Not now, not ever. Because I am the darkness in the deepest corners of your mind... the evil that's settled in your subconscious... and I'm _never_ letting you go..."

_Slade's POV_

The boy wonder, in strangled retaliation, grabs my foot, trying to swing me off of him. Just what I wanted him to do; at the moment he grabs my leg I use his own momentum to send him flying across the room, smashing into crates and boxes. I hear him scream with pain and I can't help but snicker at his expense.

Emerging from the crates with anger, he takes one, and in an intriguing show of his strength, throws it at me. How boring. A simple mid air spin kick reduces the once heavy crate into splinters.

He stares at me and mouths the word "wow".

"Don't fight angrily. Anger makes you thoughtless; thoughtlessness leads to stupid mistakes. Stupid mistakes lead to death."

I know he senses the truth in my words, as his shoulders and stance begrudgedly weaken up.

"Good boy. Now, before you rudely interrupted me... I was going to say that we were going to do meditation training today... but apparently you'd rather spar."

I can see he's flabbergasted. His extreme emotions are the best ones.

"Your pre training begins now, my dear future apprentice..."

_Starfire's POV_

His room is... disturbing. The moment I step inside of it I can feel his determination that is so very Slade-like. I suppose that is what worries me the most about his disapearance.

I step across the bare room to the table littered with Slade evidence and articles cut out from the papers of news. One of Robin's colorful Birdarangs sits upon the table; it reminds me of him and I hug it to my chest, for that is what I would do if I could only seen him again.

Slade and Robin are... similar. I must admit that ever since Robin become the Red X I have not looked at him the same way. Until that moment, there had never been a reason for me to doubt his intentions. I guess it... shocked me. I know he is the same Robin that I care for, but I can't help thinking that there is something different about him from the rest of us...

Earthlings call these feelings 'loneliness', and 'love'. I miss Robin and I fear for his safety; it seems like the team has given up hope of ever seeing Robin again besides me. At night I still fly about that area, trying to hear or see anything that will help me find him, but nothing ever works. Someone has cut off all of his communicators.

"Sweet! It's a package! It must be from one of my adoring fans!" I can hear Beast Boy's squeaky loud voice and a thump of some sort. With curiosity I step into the living room to see that my remaining friends are all gathered around a medium-sized wooden crate.

"The last time you said that, Puppet King stole our bodies..." Raven says in her bored, monotone voice.

"Yeah, "Cyborg says, scratching his head, "What kinda fangirl sends something in a military crate?"

"Be careful friends, it could be a trap." I say, trying my best to say what Robin would in this situation.

Beast Boy returns with a curved metal device and attempts to open the box but can not. However Cyborg snatches it away from him and easily busts the top of it open, sending it flying across the room with his cybernetic strength.

Raven shields us with her black magic before any foreign chemicals can hurt us.

"My scanners say there's nothin' in the air. It's safe y'all." Says friend Cyborg.

Raven's shield fades and Beast Boy rushes to the box in eagerness, pulling out a note first. We all crowd around him as he reads.

_Team Mates,_

_You can keep it. I don't need it anymore._

_Nor do I need you._

_Robin_

We all peer inside the box and cannot believe our eyes; inside is Robin's uniform--and his Teen Titans communicator.

_Robin's POV _

And so it did, not to mention the most brutal training sessions I'd ever experienced. far more difficult than anything Batman provided. I guess it was because Batman did not like to harm me; Slade does. A lot. In fact I think, in the later training sessions, he'd go out of his way to.

Every morning I'd try to beat Slade's invisible clock race, but I could never make it, and every day he seemed slightly more dissapointed in me. I wonder why that began to hurt so much?

The long days of pre-training were brutal to say the least. First we began with the basics; sparring/hand to hand combat, bow staff training, projectiles, and explosives. All of which Slade put me to shame with his sheer skill- but he seemed to be impressed with my progression as well. Every lilting compliment like, "Excellent, Robin..." or "Good Job..." motivated me to do better the next chance.

As the basic training days went on I also noticed that I began to get fed less and less, probably to make the training more strenuous on my body. It may sound cruel, but I acted as if I hadn't noticed; I didn't want him to think I was weak.

Day after day, I got used to the route, and I eventually stopped arriving tardy; but by then we'd begun doing the training six, even eight times every day, so it didn't really matter. I could tell that his opinion of me was getting better, and I am afraid that mine of him was too.

We began to know eachother well, and find that our fighting styles and stances were alike in many ways. He teaches me things about my self that I did not know, that I would have never thought of.

I began to appreciate his skills; I know now that he could easily match Batman in skill and wit and perhaps even more. I find myself wanting his approval; someone so far up on the skill charts to praise me. Someone with such high standards to finally accept me. Batman never did. Slade showed me that himself.

We are training right now, a stealth course. I must successfully sneak up on Slade and restrain him for more than ten seconds. We have done this many times but I have never succeded. At the beginning he'd detect me in the first few minutes; but the more we practice the closer I've become until now the sneaking is no problem, but the capturing.

He is in the shadows, too. Looking for me. He knows it's my test yet he enjoys hunting for me as well.

Flipping from one giant gear to another, I search for him in the shadows. I can't see him or anything from this vantage point. I jump down to the floor against the edge of a wall and slowly edge myself across it until it becomes shadowed enough for me to run across. Ducking into the closest dark corner, my eyes scan for him as well as my ears. Nothing.

Then I get an idea. Unsheathing my staff, I bang it against the wall a few times; jerkily, to make it sound clumsy; like I'd made a mistake. I quickly change my position so that he'll go to the spot I was at and I can see him and spring an attack.

I tense up; For a moment, I thought I saw him-- but then, I hear foot steps above me; looking up, there is nothing... and as I lower my eyes I'm met with a jaw crushing punch to the face.

"Augh!" in a very swift split second, he's on top of me. I try to get free- pushing, punching, kicking, thrashing in general- nothing works on him.

" 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9... 10. I win, Robin..." He counts slowly just to mock me.

"Uhnn..." I let out, my limbs going limp in his muscled arms. I can't breathe well, for some reason. Every attempt at a breath fills my lungs with fire- but I am far too proud and too tired to say anything about it. It's probably nothing. I'm just tired, that's all. Instead, I say the first thing that comes to mind.

"That hurt..." I whisper. I faintly notice that he's sat me up in his lap, supporting my tired weight in his very strong arms. For some reason, it feels good for him to hold me like this. I must be delirious from the growing pain within my chest.

"It was supposed to." He says smugly, as he supports me with one hand while touching my body all over in a seductive way with the other.

"S-stop..." I let out, but my head only rolls back with fatigue. What's wrong with me? Sure he hit me and pinned me, but that definately is not enough to tire me out like this. Somethings wrong with my body; my chest hurts irregularly.

"You're so stubborn." He says, his hand going down to stroke my inner thigh, "Mmmm, doesn't that feel good? I could stroke something else for you..." He purrs in my ear deceptively. The warmth of his crawling hands between my legs would be enough to seduce the Man of Steel Himself.

I'd blush, but my face is probably already red from the odd pain in my chest. I become light headed until I feel myself thump against his hard chest in fatigue.

"Robin?" He questions. He sits me up and must notice my limpness, because through my swirling pain, he sounds... worried about me? I guess he must realize that my moans weren't only from his touches-although a lot of them were.

He shakes me, but all I can do is close my eyes. His hand goes up to feel my sweating forhead.

"Your face... you're burning up."

All I can do is lay my head on his chest, otherwise I feel like it'll fall off. I'm so vulnerable now... why doesn't he take advantage of me like the last time?

"Where does it hurt?" He asks. I'm surprised by this and caught off guard by the EXTREMELY strange tone of sincerity in his voice.

"Ahhh--- why do you care...?" I let out, not angry with him, but with my body and it's stupid weakness. I don't want to be weak in front him- not after I just failed my test.

"Because I-" I faintly hear him mutter, but my mind doesn't really care right now, too dulled by the sickness. With frustration, he picks me up swiftly in his arms like a groom and his bride and carries me off somewhere into the darkness.

My eyes shut and I lean my head against his chest as I fitfully lose my consciousness. As I do I see him looking down at me. Because of the mask, I can't tell, but his one eye, looking down at me, looks concerned, his brow is knotted.

I feel myself smiling up at him, my head, in it's frantic haze of delirium, letting out all of its well kept, secretive thoughts in a few slurred words.

"I like you a lot." and in the next few seconds, I'm dead asleep.

F.I.N

Robin's sickly! dun dun dun! Wow I'm spitting out the chapters, huh? I'm just a really fast writer. I tried to remedy a lot of the sort of grammar mistakes I made in chapter 2. Glad you guys are enjoying it, repeat readers make my heart area happy.

P.S. Anyone catch the Superman and two Flash references?


	4. Was blind, but now I see

The Bird and his Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. slight SlxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.

Disclaimor: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material posessions. I like my material posessions...

Please do not take or archive without permission.

Notes: waves .. Why do you keep reading this? Ask yourself that, you silly, silly little person you. Well anyway, Slade's mask comes off in this chapter. I apologize for the delay of this chapter! Writers block, and getting ready for vacation.

lol I apologize for any OOCness that was in the last chapter and that will undoubtedly be in this one as well.

And I can't write lemons. So I'm stalling as long as I can. 8\

_Starfire's POV_

I feel water come to my eyes and spill down my cheeks as I stare into the crate at the Robin's uniform. His... former uniform...

"This's gotta be a mistake." Cyborg mutters. "You'd think he'd want us to rescue him! Then he sends us his uniform like, 'thanks for nothin'!"

"No!" Cyborg's words hurt and disapoint me. " This must be a mistake! Robin would never do this and send us this thanks of nothingness! "

"Come on, Starfire. The communicator was our last chance for finding him. Now we don't even know where he is." Beast Boy says, sounding annoyed with me for some reason.

"Cyborg, can you scan the note and see if it's Robin's hand writing?" Raven asks, always on the neutral side of things.

"Why didn't I think of that?" Says Cyborg, and with his eye scanner, inspects the note for a few moments while we wait around him eagerly.

Beast Boy flops down hard on the curved onyx couch, crossing his arms and legs with a scowl on his face. " If Robin _wanted_ to come home, he'd of done it by now. He was the only one who knew where Slade's hideout was. How can he expect us to come save him when we don't even know where he is?"

"Scanners and records say it's a 78 chance that it's the real Robin who wrote this letter." Cyborg says, dismayed.

"No, no, no!" I find myself shouting, angry at them all for accepting Robin's capture and now his betrayal so easily. "Your scanners are wrong! Robin is not like Slade now! He is not!"

"Starfire, it's pointless to get upset about facts that we cannot change. His gesture pretty much told us that he's not associated with us anymore. But as far as we know, he hasn't commited any crimes, so there's still a chance that this is all a big mistake or a trick by Slade." Says Raven. Her words comfort me, but her coldness only makes me feel like my emotions are just an empty cause.

"Yeah. We all know Robin has a beef with Slade. It was bound to happen- they probably had a big show down." Says Cyborg. I can tell he is trying to make me feel better.

"Do you think he could be... dead?"

"No," says Raven, " There wouldn't be any motive in Slade's actions for that. He'd always gone after all of us- Slade must want something from Robin, or be using him as a hostage to lure us out."

"Then why has he not contacted us with his demands?" I ask, wrapping my arms around myself like I wish Robin could right now.

"Maybe Robin's not lettin' him. Maybe Robin's protecting us from Slade and he's already won the battle-- just too weak to contact us. Maybe he's hiding out somewhere, healing up and then he'll come home with the good news?" Cyborg makes me want to believe that his theory is true, but I can't help thinking that all of your hopes are in vain.

"Oh, dear Cyborg. I hope you are correct about that. I do not know if my heart could bare it if Robin were to be injured by Slade."

_Slade's POV_

The closest room with a bed is my own room; I hesitate bringing him there, and almost decide to dump him in his own dank living space, but at the last second my mind for some reason rules against it.

Once inside, I place the boy's sleeping form atop my bed and sit beside him; his hair is drenched with sweat, leaving it flat and matted against his pale cheeks; now a fever-induced rosey pink color. His labored, gasping breaths and the sight of his lanky body spralled across my bed did little to quell my ill intentions.

_"I like you a lot."_

Such innocent words coming from such innocent lips. So misleading yet spoken at such the time of the youth's drunken state that they could have meant nothing significant; perhaps directed at someone else entirely within a dream.

With little hesitation, I remove my own mask, letting it thump against the floor carelessly; his beauty is all I can see right now. I descend against him, pressing my body against his, feeling his smaller stomach and chest muscles against my own.

I remove my own metal bracers and gloves so that I can touch him with my own hands whilst I plant kisses along his sweaty neck, letting my hot breath excite him; he is still in a haze of fever, but that is a good thing now because he has little strength to restrict himself, all of the gasps and moans I can so painfully tell he wants to make.

As I lean down to purr sounds of lust softly in his ears, my ash-colored beard brushes up against the bottom of his chin, making him let out a light, airy gasp.

"ohhh... that tickles...!" He groans out slowly, and I feel his lithe body arch beneath my own, and it's almost too much for me to keep controle over myself.

I'm quite aware I'm taking advantage of him; but in his feverish condition, his mind has no blockade; no moral sense of right nor wrong, so in truth, this is what he really wants.

I keep telling myself this.

Trying to pace myself, I let my hand wander down his body until it reaches his lower groin, pressing and massaging his aching boyhood from beyond the slick black fabric of his duplicated uniform.

He let's out a cry- a very loud one at that- and I find myself pressing my hand against his lips to silence him.

However, the damage is done; I hear the door begin to creak open; reluctantly I tear myself away from the sleeping boy in time to see Wintergreen in full nightware, along with a rediculous looking night cap. I would not care very well if he'd seen us or not, but I am not in the mood for his bitching tonight.

"Master Slade, what is bloody going on? I heard running, and then yelling...is young Robin quite alright?" He doesn't sound suspicious, just curious and too drowsy to connect it all together.

"It was nothing," I say, twising my body so that the evidence of my previous activities with Robin can't be seen- spandex only hides so much, you know. "He wasn't feeling well." I say gruffly, not wanting to sound like I cared. "He was simply crying out in a fever dream."

"Well, you might want to have some common courtesy for the people living here that aren't chronic insomniacs." says Wintergreen, now fully awake, rushing to the bedside. His slightly wrinkled hands touch the youngest man's forehead. " He's developed a dreadful fever. Terrible thing it is, but not too serious. He should recover in a few days, perhaps a week at most."

Wintergreen disapears from the room for a few moments and then re enters with a cantine of water, lifting the bird's torso up from the bed and helping him drink. As he lowers the boy down and drapes a sheet over his body, I am surprised by how nurturing the old man can be after all of these years of being exposed to me.

Robin clutches at his chest, tearing at the sheets and breathing heavily. "Slade, I..." He let's out. Wintergreen's eyes grow wide.

"He's having a panic attack... what was going on before?"

I hesitate, trying to pick the most delicate words, but I have never been known for holding back.

"Feeling him up," I answer bluntly, smirking inside my mask at the older man's look of disgust and disbelief. I can't hold back. Not unless I want him to be free.

He stands up and slaps me in the face. I let him. He deserves to; even though my heart holds no remorse for my actions, I won't let myself hit an old man. Of the few morals I allow myself to harbor, that seems to be one of them.

I glance up at him from the corner of my eyes, spitting out a small amount of blood that's welled up in my mouth. There are tears in the old man's eyes. I guess I've finally broken his back. Bent him to the limits. Hurt him as much as I could until his loyalty to me could take no more.

"Slade, ever since Addie left you, I have taken her place beside you; I've put up with your greed; your lust for power, and I stood beside you all this time as you slowly clawed your way up from a lowly assassin to the man with Jump City in his grasp... but now I finally see that I've had blinders on this whole time. I tried to keep thinking of you as the ambitious young man that I had once loved like a son. Yet I did not let myself see how twisted you'd become."

"I thought that perhaps, if I cared for you enough, was loyal, I could keep you from changing. Tried to give you hope. But you're scaring me in ways I never thought you would. You've become cold. I'm afraid of what you've become; what you're going to do to Robin. To the Teen Titans. The city. I can't be part of it anymore."

"Slade Wilson is dead," I mutter to the floor, my eyes growing wide as I stare at my own hands, "And only this remains..."

"I know that now. I just wish I'd realized sooner." Wintergreen says, going to the door, "I'm not coming back to this place."

He opens the door, and walks outside but does not shut it. Instead, he begins to ramble. I suppose a make-shift goodbye, thick with regret.

"You know... you and Robin are very much alike. So ambitious, the two of you scare me with what you could accomplish together. I remember like it was yesterday; I helped you sneak into the army and lie about your age; and because of it, you became the youngest decorated officer in history. Robin is a lot like you... but you know, I think he's also a little different..."

I don't answer. I suppose he doesn't care if I do.

" I heard you say one time that you are the symbol of everything dark in Robin's mind; the darkest corners, I think you said. Yet... I still believe that Robin could help you in ways Addie and I have failed. If you let him, maybe he could become the small good things left in your mind... the ones only I can see."

And in a much lower tone of voice he mumbles, " Take care..." And the door shuts for the last time, painfully loud in my ears.

I feel strange, automatic tears creating stinging streaks down my face; I won't let myself feel anything. I became a cold, lifeless thing long ago, only coming fully to life in times of my own pleasure, or other people's pain and sadness; I have not had to feel my own in years.

I reach down and clasp my mask back into place so that no creatures of the night will ever see the glistening tears as I whisper to myself in disdain.

"Stupid old fool... you've been tricked by a monster all this time, and you didn't even know it..."

F.I.N.

Dun dun dun... bye bye Wintergreen. You may be thinking, what was the point of devoting a whole chapter ((a very short one at that)) to his leaving? Well it has a point for a future story line. Like I've said, it was short, but I did love finally writing some RobinxSlade stuff, even if it was short lived. PLEASE tell me your opinions!

Hopefully all the people reading didn't forget about it already. --


	5. For you, my sacrifice

The Bird and his Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SlxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.

Disclaimor: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material posessions. I like my material posessions...

Please do not take or archive without permission.

Notes: doo dee doo. Back from vacation. I'm so happy (and surprised) by all the nice reviews! You guys rock, seriously. Some nice stuff in this chapter. Not 'nice' as in fluffy, but nice enough to show an actual progression in feelings. If you can even call them that. It is very difficult to express feelings through these characters because they're both so stubborn! If I get too into it it becomes OOC, but if I don't, the story goes nowhere. Bleh. Forgive me. You may be surprised by how far things go though. Woo.

This chapter makes me kick myself for choosing a first person present tense point of view. Hope you don't mind the constant POV switching. Bleh.

_Robin's POV_

"If you deny even the smallest request... I'll _annihilate_ them, Robin... and I'll make you _watch_..."

That's what he said to me the first day he kidnapped me; sabotaged my friendships and most definately mine and their lives. He'd been... harassing us for some time before... leaving clues, manipulating other villains to do his bidding. Cinder Block, Overload, H.I.V.E... even ignorant well-meaning god-like brothers Thunder and Lightning were used against us.

I thought it was all just a game in the beginning. But soon, his attempts on the city began to become far too dangerous for just some small-time evil genius. With his resources, he could be doing much worse things; he could be in Coast City, Keystone, Star City, Gotham, Metropolis... and he would more than stand a chance against the full-grown crusaders who presided in those respective places.. I've always wondered why he lowered himself to fight against meer Teenagers. Now I know why.

He wanted me all along.

Kind of flattering when you think about it.

My world is a blur of strange things. The fever dreams bite at me, showing me crazy, repeating images of people I know or once knew but won't or may never see again. Whirling black capes, circus tights, and a single cold blue eye all melt into one person to me.

I'm talking crazy, too. I'm probably babbling like an idiot. My forehead, chest and stomach all feel warm, making me feel sick.

Invisible nights turn into days and vice versa. I can tell that someone's taking care of me; seeming begrudged but secretly very willing. Sometimes I open my eyes and see that mysterious mask staring down at me, although I can't tell if it's just another crazy dream; I hope it isn't.

_Slade's POV_

Love.

Disgusting. I _hate_ needing something. Needing. Dependence. These feelings mean that I'm still human... and that scares me.

We love the people we need and we need the people we love. But that is not always the case. Needing something does not always equal love. I know this from first hand experience. And people live without love, if they have to.

I've been dependent on Wintergreen too long. Did I love him? It depends on what kind of love. It depends on how long ago we're talking about.

I believe I did at one point. In the past. When my heart was still open. When I did not turn down his fatherly affection. Wintergreen was the best man of my wedding. I embraced him as my care taker. I think I did love him. Before I began the spiral into what I am today.

There was a woman, too, at one point in time. Adeline. Addie. Did I love her? I suppose. Now, I don't really care very well. It was an idealistic love. A white picket fence sort of thing. Not to be. She made me spiral. The transformation. The bullet. Changed me into something more or less than human.

It is not all of her fault. I'm not blaming her. She was simply the catalyst. A small piece of the puzzel that made me slowly fall over the edge of sanity. I could have fought it if I'd been strong enough; could have been that perfect little soldier for Wintergreen if I'd really wanted to.

But the friction's so tempting. The greed. Power. Darkness. My heart skips a beat with delight every time I hear a strangled word; a lustful sigh; And my mouth curves into a twisted smile, behind the mask, every time I extinguish a human life.

Filthyness. I love it. Ambition. Fierce emotion. Determination. Denial. Passion. This is why I think I love him. A young boy. Born among freaks, bred in darkness and suddenly thrust into a world of light. Eyes so clouded with childish ideals that he can not even see the blackness swirling around in his soul like a torrent, angry to be kept under lock and key.

And who can blame him? As a young child, always on the move, never having anything solid but the bond he had with the circus; that one bond being snapped when his parents were assassinated right before his eyes. And then suddenly being expected to fight for good and justice, when those very things had turned their back on him?

A body slender yet strong; graceful from many circus routines, trying to impress the crowd enough to earn another day's meal; a cunning, trained detective's mind. An imperfect perfection.

I want so much to taint him. To make him _want _it. _Need_ it. I love his youthfulness; perhaps I am chasing myself. Chasing the shadow of myself without the twisted malcontempt. Me without the bullet wound.

Is this love? Love's an overused word with no meaning anymore. I suppose it had some at one time. How can a mad man love anyway? How can anyone love a mad man? Love. It makes me shudder. Lust? Lust is not love. Pleasure is not love.

Needing someone? Is that what love is? I don't like to believe that.

Love's a sick word. A beauty with leprus skin.

I like to believe I love him. That not all of my soul is so rotten; that my heart still beats to something semi-good. I like to trick myself like this.

But there aren't any white picket fences in sight.

Days pass. I don't let myself feel anything after Wintergreen's absence. I almost don't aknowledge that he was ever here. Part of me knows better; the brighter parts of my mind, but as I've said before, I decided to become lifeless long ago. I can't let myself feel anything unselfish, or I'll be a hypocrite.

Not that I care. Ethics are just another blockade to get over.

For days I've refused to care for the boy. I am not nurturing in the smallest, irrelevent sense of the word. My body needs little nutrition, so I rarely remembered to feed him. None the less I did care for him, and soon something began to awaken itself; something good inside of me. Like when you rescue a baby bird with a broken wing.

Something special. I just can't put my finger on it. I feel like my teeth will rot from the sweetness of this feeling.

I sound sappy. I'd better stop before I get any worse.

One day, as I periodically go to check on him, he was half awake, half sleeping. Every day he becomes more alert, until finally he sits up to be fed before I even get there.

I hold him close to myself and feed him, and I try to think of what this feeling could possibly be. However I'm only dimly aware that he is trying to speak to me.

"Slade? Nnn... let go..." He tries to roll away from me, but he's so weak that his struggle becomes adorably futile.

"Ssh. If you can start trying to escape, you can start feeding yourself too, so shut up, or you're on your own."

"Let me go... "

"Why? You seemed to be liking it a little while ago..." Of course I know that he wasn't himself at that time, but he doesn't. It's... enjoyable to tease him.

His eyes grow wide, and he doesn't say anything. He looks too tired to speak very well.

"What? I won't hurt you. I'm not that bad, am I?" I against his neck in a sarcastic tone as he struggles and thumps his fists once against my chest and leans his head against my chest as well.

I can tell he's getting more comfortable; his shoulders slump with fatigue, and his breaths become steadier.

"I guess not..." He mumbles.

My heart beats faster.

_Robin's POV_

One of his large hands touches my face and strokes my hair- long unspiked, laying flat around my face.

"Robin... if you honor me with a kiss, I'll promise not to 'harm' you while you heal..."

Honor? Kiss? Promise? What? It blows my mind that those three words can exist in one sentence coming from Slade's mouth at all.

This is my chance to see the man hiding behind that devilish mask. Of course, I'll have to kiss him to reach my goal, but I'm not entirely upset about that. Why, I'm not sure and not well enough to even try and think about it right now. All I know is that this is the opportunity that I've been waiting for, and if it means taking advantage of his feelings and letting go of any dignity I have left, then I suppose I have to.

"You'll have to take off your mask..." I say it in the best fakely seductive voice I can muster; I've never had to do this before. I've never even kissed anyone before. I always thought that it would be Starfire, or Batgirl even. But a man, who is supposed to be my arch nemisis, that's probably a good twenty-thirty years older than me? The teenaged boy in me is disapointed and scared while the part of me that is so much like Slade is crazily excited at the same time.

He chuckles softly, "Yes, I suppose so..." He grabs my shoulders and lowers his face down to my level, his one eye wide. "Can you keep a secret...?" His silken words drip with sarcasm and threat, like he's talking to a child. I'm not one, but I don't really mind the power he holds over me right now. It's only a matter of time, if I play my cards right.

Being so close to him for so long is starting to scare me. I just want it to be over.

The room is still dark, but my eyes have adjusted well enough so that I'll be able to see all I need to. Swinging around Gotham at night has its advantages.

He must know this. Does he not mind showing me his face? I guess there is no avoiding it. If we're going to be partners, we'll have to see eachother's faces sooner or later, right? I just hope he never tries to take off my mask or anything.

Ugh. I just said we're partners, didn't I? Well, we're not. I'm only doing this so I can see his face. So I can toy with his perverted feelings. If I can ever get out of here, I'll know his face, and it will make him weaker; I'll finally find the assurance that he is not just a shadow looming over my mind, but a real person with a weakness; me.

_Slade's POV_

My hand shifts away from his hair, and manually the controle, holding his former friend's lives in the balance, slowly rises into my hand, and my thumb intentionally rests carelessly on the button.

"Any plans you may have concerning my identity, you may as well forget now... if you try anything, you can say goodbye to your friends."

His face contorts in horror; I can tell that any schemes he could have thought up are dashed at the prospect; I haven't used my leverage against him in a while; now suddenly it is more ominous than ever, and I know that he can not refuse my offer; safety in his time of weakness is all that he can hope for.

I can feel his eyes on me as I reach up to take off my mask, tossing it upon the bed beside us.

_Robin's POV_

I stare up at him; I can't see him very well. His features are sharp and handsome and European. He has a sharp, pointed beard and his hair is a fearsome white color. Where his right eye should be, there is just darkness, as if it does not exist. I can't tell much else; the room is just barely bright enough to let me see only what he wants me to.

He cups my cheek; I'm shaking. His eyes are closed and his lips are curled into a sneer; I can now see that he's wearing a black eye patch over a wounded eye.

He wraps his arms around me and settles me in his lap, the remote controle device attached to his glove mockingly close to me. I don't want to move for fear of pressing the button myself; another well placed trap. I'm almost impressed.

"You won't get away with thi-"

He doesn't give me a chance to finish before he yanks me forward-and before I know it, his lips are pressed down on mine, his head slightly tilting. My eyes shoot open.

My god. It's the strangest feeling I've ever felt. The warmth. I didn't know a villains lips could feel so soft. It contradicts everything I know about him.

His lips part against mine and his thick, wet tongue slips inside, reducing me to a melting heap in his arms. He kisses me for a few moments before our lips smack apart.

Surprised at the sudden loss of sensations, I'm even more caught off guard when he backhands me across the face; not as hard as usual, but enough to stun me. I can tell he's holding back a lot more than he wants to.

"Kiss back, apprentice."

"I... I can't. I don't know _how_."

"Kiss back, Robin. Unless you want me to take you back to the tower so we can burry your friends... _together_... Wouldn't that be fun...?"

An image graces my mind. Slade and I side by side, near the water, four large graves and different-sized holes. The night sky is littered with stars; I'm holding a lifeless Starfire's body in my arms, Slade's hand resting on my shoulder. I lower her into her respective grave, tears streaming down my eyes, and it's almost too much for me to bare.

In the vision, Slade cackles, hugging me close while kicking dirt disrespectfully into Starfire's grave.

Pain shoots through my heart and tears come to my eyes, sliding down from my mask. Now I know more than ever that the only way to save my friends is to betray them; to give into my feelings of perversion. Their salvation will mean the end of our friendship... I just have to accept it.

He licks his lips and starts to circle his thumb around the red button.

"I know it's bad now, Robin, but you'll learn to-"

My body jerks and I force myself to place my hands up on his shoulders; the only way I can reach is to sit up on my legs. Trying my best, I kiss his lower lip and clumsily try to lick his mouth open; he moans, and lets me in. His experienced tongue teaches and coaxes me.

His guard is down- probably the most it ever has been. I could probably get a few hits in- I'd like to believe that I could. But I know that if I did, he'd press the button.

As we kiss and run our hands through eachothers hair passionately, I make a solemn promise to my self.

I'll give up anything to avoid having to burry her. Even if it means my freedom.

FIN

Well, that was an almost pointless chapter, but hey... hope you liked it anyway. It could have been done without, but still, for those of you who like the pairing, this chapter is for you.The next chapter will actually develop the storyline, I promise.


	6. Bed Mate part 1

The Bird and his Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SlxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.

Disclaimor: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material posessions. I like my material posessions...

Please do not take or archive without permission.

Notes: Wow! Ten reviews on the last chapter. That is cool, glad it's popular. Repeat readers are the best!

Moo. I had so much trouble writing this chapter! I knew I wanted to do something with Sweet Lili, Slade's mistress from the comics, but didn't know how, so this seemed like the best time. Lili will serve a bigger purpose later on. I changed her personality from the comics. I'm starting to feel like my Slade character is getting less and less Slade-like and more Deathstroke-like. Bleh. And the OOCness settles in.

I originally wanted this chapter to be really long, but decided to cut it in half resulting in this chapter and the next, so this will be a two-parter. Woo. Not a whole lot of SlxR stuff in this part, but the next chapter will more than make up for it.

P.S. I really don't know how much of a lemon you are allowed to post on (the limits of the M rating) so if anyone knows, please share. I'm new to this website.

_Robin's POV_

I am broken.

That one thought holds all of the meaning of all of my life and all of my world. I'm broken. Tamed. I'm not who I was a month ago. A month ago, I would be shouting threats and curses at Slade while attacking him in a seething fury for doing to me what he did last night. I'd be ashamed that I'd let him do it; I'd hate him. The thought of kissing another man would have normally made me sick to my stomach.

What happened to my confidence? My strength of character? I don't have it anymore. Well, I do; it's just been channeled into different things; before, all of my strength and ferocity had been centered on crime fighting; that's all I'd known. Everything was black and white- and I was _happy_. Sladebad, Titansgood. But now, all of this greyness has begun to bleed into my vision.

Of course, I'm still the same, deep down; but that person I was has been warped and molded by Slade's lithe fingers every time he attempts to molest or seduce me.

I _am_ ashamed. But not for the right reasons. I'm not ashamed that I let him do it; I'm ashamed because I liked it. It's different. It's sick. I like liking it, I guess you could say. Why does it have to be this way? Why can't I find the strength to escape him?

I'm so tame that Slade doesn't even mind me sleeping in his bed with him at night; obviously I pose no threat to him. I can't argue that. He has me by a chain, a chain connected to the threatening trigger in his hand.

I was afraid at first; but I realized that Slade rarely sleeps in his own bedroom anyway. In the few days I have slept there, I've barely seen him even in the room. He goes out at night, and is already up in the morning. I can barely find traces that he was ever even in the bed at all. He must be more of an insomniac than I thought.

That lead me to wonder just what he does, late at night. Little did I know that I'd soon find out, and I'd wish I hadn't.

We're training today, as always; later at night than usual. I can tell that I'm in the ending stretches of my basic combat training; I can actually hold my own against him in bo-staff training, many of our fights ending with me knocking his weapon out of his hands; I can't believe how much I've improved.

However, today's victory wouldn't be so easy; Slade seemed... uneasy. Even angry. Pent up.

My mind's not really on the training, though; something else.

I still can't believe he kissed me. It hasn't really sunk in, making it float around in my head even worse. Nothing new has happened since then. It's almost like it never happened; in training, he treats me as if we're still mortal enemies Which, we sort of are... well, I don't know what we are to eachother anymore. he doesn't spare me anymore physical or emotional pain than before. He puts me down with lectures and insults and then brings me right back up in an instant with a nice remark or a gentle touch.

Are we still enemies? Partners in crime? Lovers? Maybe we're all of those. I just wish I wasn't so confused.

"Robin! Pay _attention_!" In a whirl-wind of speed, Slade's bo staff comes at me, but it doesn't register in my brain; I've been recounting the events of last night for the last few seconds when suddenly the heavy metal of his staff slams into my face, sending me sputtering to the floor.

He lands gracefully before me, I being quite the opposite; hunched over my own pool of blood, shaking, spitting out the splinters of a molar tooth that had been shattered in his attack.

I lift up my head, my fists clenched. " Why...?" I let out. He must love seeing me like this.

He crosses his arms, a looming figure standing above me. "I told you to pay attention. You didn't. So I had to punish you." He scolds me like a father would his son. Like my father used to do to me.

He sinks down on one knee, and I lean away, sorely feeling the new gap between my back teeth. He grabs my chin and examines me, touching my swollen cheek.

"You've never hurt me like that before..."

"You've never ignored my orders like that before." He answers in a matter-of-fact sort of way, taking off his mask, so that I can see his cunning smile. Every time I see his face, it surprises me more than before; every time he takes his mask off, it's been in darkness, so I can't make out that many details besides these; his hair is bright, and I can't tell if it's white or just a very light colored blonde. He looks to be about late thirties, maybe even early forties, the hard lines of middle age just beginning to set in, but that just makes him seem even more alluring. His aristocratic goatee only adds to his attractiveness along with his definate British features.

He leans down to kiss me; I close my eyes and let him, even participating in it as well as I can; leaning into his touch. The truth is that I've been waiting, wishing for him to do it again; for him to grasp my shoulders and pull me ontop of him; he strokes my hair with one hand and my cheek in apology as he exhales against my mouth before claiming it over and over again.

Is this wrong? I know it is, but I've been blockaded from everything that is supposed to be right for so long that I must be warped. I can feel my views of right and wrong slowly switching in his favor. To me, to my body and mind, this is what feels right; his touch, his acceptence, even if it's brief, it feels _right_. Even if he were to move away and slap me again like he did the first time, I wouldn't care; I'd take the pain for his acceptence.

Oh, lord. Starfire. I'm so sorry. I'm letting you down. I'm changing into a person that you'd hate; that I _already_ hate! No matter how much I fall to his side, I'll always have you in the back of my mind; and I'm fine with that.

"Mmmm... Robin..." Slade moans, his hand going down from my cheek to my ass, groping me roughly. The unfamiliar gesture is... surprising, to say the least, but not entirely unwanted.

This goes on for a few minutes before we separate and he looks at me keenly. "Were you distracted in the middle of the training... because of that one simple kiss?"

Bingo. I feel my face getting warm with embarrassment; I can't let him know what I feel. He probably already knows; I've said it before, and I'll say it again; Slade knows be better than I know myself. And that's why I hate him.

He seems satisfied with my silence as leans down to kiss me again, but instead, I press my finger against his lips in an act of defiance. His eyes open, his brow creased with annoyance.

"I wouldn't have messed up earlier if you'd stop giving me mixed signals all the time." I say, trying to push the blame on him. Surprisingly, he allows it.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you... you act so nice sometimes, and then you turn around and beat me..."

He smiles and brushes my hair out of my face. "Sometimes daddy needs to be strict..." He whispers it seductively in my ear, "... or else you'll never learn."

His tongue flicks out like a snake to tease figure eights along my ear lobe, sending shocks down my body that end at my groin; my mind fills with terror and arousal at the same time as he shoves me down against the smooth, glassy onyx floor, sitting atop my groin, going out of his way to make sure that I can feel the steadily growing appendage between his legs.

"Slade..." I let out. Unfortunately, I can't find any words to tell him to stop, what my mind frantically wants to do but my body betrays me and only lets me lay still as he begins to take my belt off.

He throws the belt to the ground and is about to reach for my pants when a high-pitched beeping sound cuts through the air. Slade freezes, and swiftly takes out a small electronic device with his trademark 'S' label on it. He looks at it for a long moment, his body conflicted and begrudged, and then switches the beeping sound off and puts the device back into one of the many weapon-carrying satchels.

He clicks his mask back on and rises up. Confused, I stand up beside him, clipping my belt back on. "What's going on?"

"Work to do. Stay here." He seems even angrier than before.

"You work?"

He says in a biting tone of voice, "Yes, Robin. How else would I be able to afford all of this?"

All I can do is follow him as he stalks away. We come to a door, and before it opens, he takes out a remote controle; suddenly I sense that we are not alone, as robots crafted in their creator's own image circle around us; I can't tell just how many there are.

"While I'm gone, I expect every one of these robots to be destroyed using all of the things you've learned in basic training. I'll be recording it, and if you do well, we'll move on to something more challenging tomorrow."

He must have noticed the dismayed look on my face- that I definately did not mean to have. He touches my chin with his finger as the heavy door opens via another button on his uniform.

"Don't worry, my pretty little bird. We can continue where we left off when I get back from work tonight."

I don't say anything; I've gotten better at knowing when to speak and when not to. Without another word between us, he leaves, the door shutting thunderously behind him.

It's strange. Being alone. Like a child the first time the parent goes out and leaves them alone; It's not like he's ever here besides our training hours, but still; just knowing that he's not here invokes a sense of real loneliness inside of me. Wintergreen's not here anymore, either. I think he may be taking a vacation, or maybe Slade fired him. I've got to remember to ask him about that tonight.

None the less, I've gotten used to being alone; I was often left alone when training with Batman. But nothing will match the sense of loneliness I had when my parents died. Not even the loss of my friends can equal that.

My mind is swarmed with things that I could do while he's gone; I could try to escape. I could investigate; look through his computers- No. I resist the urge- that's what he wants me to do. He has cameras everywhere. His robots are probably recording me as we speak. His computers would detect any tampering. Defeated, I let out a huge sigh, and collapse down on the cold, black ground; the robots can wait. I almost feel underestimated that Slade gave me such an easy assignment. I know it was just to distract me, but I wonder what could have been so urgent that he'd drop everything-even me- to fulfill it? He'd never done that before now.

I close my eyes, my hand massaging my still aching jaw, and the cold, hard floor begins to numb the pain, lulling me to a fitful sleep filled with thoughts and wonderings, but surprisingly, few nightmares.

_Slade's POV_

Stalking in the darkness, I cling to the shadows of the walls of the foriegn warehouse; it's the usual job. Some broad gets kidnapped and held for ransom in a situation too dangerous to use a simple task force. They all end the same; I kill a few guards, disengage a few security systems, rescue the prisoner and deliver them home. At least, that's how most of them are supposed to go.

My employer is anonymous this time, which worries me, causing me to be more careful than usual. Many times the Jump city police has attempted to apprehend me by using anonymous gigs, but none have ever worked.

Dodging the first-hand security cameras, I kick down the door; just as I suspected, there are several gun men circled around a person tied up and gagged in a chair, with long black hair, presumably a woman.

They begin shooting; they're good, but I'm better. Slipping out two discs, one tear gas and one a smoke bomb, I leap up above them and toss them near the door; the gas will effect the gunmen, but throwing it near the open door will subdue the gas enough to leave the captive girl unharmed.

Some are effected worse than others; the ones that are not momentarily stunned keep shooting. Grabbing one, I attack a pressure point in his neck, knocking him out, allowing me to steal his weapon and use him as a shield against incoming bullets. Using the stolen weapon, I take out every one of them with little effort. It was an easier, more cliche' job than usual

Peculiar; they are all Asian, and wearing civilian clothing. I roll through the artificial fog of the room to the captive, unbinding her but keeping her blindfold and gag intact so that they protect her from the gas as I carry her out; in my escape, I'm met with more guards; guarding her with my own body, I expertly use only one bullet to kill each guard.

As I'm about to make my escape, I hear a clapping sound; glancing down, I see it is the woman, clapping excitedly. I remove her blindfold and gag and am stunned at what I see, almost dropping her.

"Sweet Lili!" I exclaim, almost disturbed at this sudden revelation.

"It has been far too long, Slade; and you are better than ever, I see."

She smiles, and I am reminded of just how beautiful she is, still very young looking, with flowing black hair and sharply slanted eyes set against deeply colored skin. She's wearing one of her signature blue Asian dresses, exposing her legs all the way up to her hips.

"Lili, did you use your own men against me?"

She giggles, dancing towards me until her thin arms are draped against my shoulders. "It was the only way I could lure you out of your solitude to see me, was it not?" Her English has not improved since the last time I saw her. I don't say anything; I knew she was selfish, but not to this extent.

"What's a few insignificant casualties weighed against the _pleasure _of seeing you again?" Her voice drips with seduction, but I am so used to it that it is almost second nature to both of us; I suppose that's what becomes of you when you own a brothel.

"Lili, you know I can't take you back with me."

She lays her head against me as her hand strokes my chest; I could get her off, but the question is, do I really want to?

"Please, Slade..." Her index finger distractedly traces the muscles of my chest and down to the metal covering my stomach, " Please Slade, let me repay you the only way I know how..."

_Starfire's POV_

Things are worse for the Teen Titans than ever. With out Robin's leadership, not only has the team fallen apart, but perhaps our friendships as well. Raven and BeastBoy's personalities have always clashed, but without Robin's constant place as referee, they are at worse odds than ever.

Cyborg has attempted to take Robin's place as leader of the group; but it is not the same. He is sloppy compared to Robin. Robin was stern, determined, and organized. Cyborg is lenient, letting many foes slip from our grasp.

I once thought our team was invincible; if we had our friendship, we could do anything and over come anything; but I am no longer so sure of that. I feel my hope of Robin's return faultering.

We do not work together in harmony in battles like we used to; I had never realized just how much it was Robin who decided the fates of battles. Without his skill, I fear we are no longer who we all used to be.

Oh, Robin. I did not appreciate you enough while you were here; We all underestimated you. At first, I only thought that you were the leader because you were Batman's desciple; but it was more than that; so much more. My feelings for you are so strong now that I do not know the human way of telling them;

I believe I would say, I love you, Robin. That's what I'd tell you if I ever got another chance. Just one more chance to see you again.

_Robin's POV_

I woke up, dazed, hours later; the pain of the blow delivered by Slade earlier had passed, but even though I'd slept for hours, I still felt exhausted. I guess healing after a sickness can take it's toll on you. Sleeping on the floor isn't very good, either.

I destroyed the last robot with ease hours ago. They reacted to hositility and put up a good fight, but Slade trained me better than he thought; I used all of my fluidity and skill to defeat them, and perhaps, to impress him. I got so practiced that I could take out five of them in one strike.

I could never do that when I was with the Titans.

Exhausted again after the work out, I lay back down to the floor, my heart beating so rapidly that I could hear it in my ears. I must have laid there for another hour or so until I finally started to drift-- when a female voice jolted me out of my sleep.

"Oh, Slade, you have little boys strewn about your chambers!"

Before I can roll over to see what is going on, I'm met with a swift kick from those all too familiar steel toed boots.

"Get up. Why are you on the floor?"

I set up, new pain in my ribs; across from me, slightly in the darkness, I can see the figure of a woman clinging to his shoulders. He has his mask off, which surprises me; he must know her well. Trust her. I also notice that she's almost ravenously kissing his neck, which sets off something queer inside of me. I can barely answer.

"I... I couldn't find the bedroom."

She squeals, clapping her hands. Her voice is flirtateous and filled with broken English and an Asian accent. "Oooh Slade your little pet is so cute!"

Little pet? It's not like I'm here of my own free will; he kidnapped me!

"You know where _your_ room is, don't you?" He says sharply. What is he doing? Who is she? And why is she hanging all over him?

"What? What happened to letting me sleep in your bed?" I say sharply, catching him offguard; I can see it. But instead of looking disgusted like I'd thought she would, the girl just kisses Slade some more.

"I didn't know you took little boys to your bed," She says, running her hands through his hair. Who is she calling little boy?

I.don't.like.her.

"Slade, I am anxious to see your chambers once again...!" She whines, hugging his arm against her breasts, practically clawing at him. Something cold settles at the pit of my stomach against my will, and all I can do is stare, dumbfounded and kicked to the curb.

"Go to your room and try not to disturb us tonight." Slade says smugly, liltingly, smiling down at me in a knowing way; _knowing_ I'm jealous, and loving it. I hate him. Yet I hate her much more, and we've only just met.

They turn and walk off, and as they do so, I hear her high pitched giggles along with Slade's soft, handsome laughter before I hear a door shut behind them.

I stare after them for a long time. Slade. Why do you play with me like this? Why do you torment me? Make me want you even more than I already did? What are doing to me?

You make me sick... because I adore you so.

FIN

Yes, an abrupt ending, but I didn't know how to end it! Anyways, tell me how you liked it.


	7. Bed Mate part 2

The Bird and his Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SlxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.

Disclaimor: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material posessions. I like my material posessions...

Please do not take or archive without permission.

Notes: Ugh I just haven't been in a good mood to write lately.This was probably the most challenging chapter yet. So much fricking stuff happens in this chapter, I hope no one gets confused. I am very thankful to those of you who reviewed, and even more so to the people who gave in depth responses. (Yay 60 comments already!) Well everyone hates Sweet Lili now, but that is to be expected. She served her purpose in the end, which was simply to bridge much of the gap between Slade and Robin (But not all of it!), even if I had to tweak her personality a bit.

Well this second part is basically the culmination of every chapter so far, and the next chapter will start a somewhat new angle. (Basically a lot more interesting stuff will happen and it'll move a little quicker)

This chapter scared me a little because it involves a lime-like thing that I am not very confident that I am any good at. You may be wondering, why can't they just screw now? Well, it's not the right time. and I am definately not a fan of senseless sex or PWP. If you do not respect that, then I am sorry. If this story gets deleted because of the scene at the end, then... I'll be sad. Limie things make me nervous.

Also, make sure you read these lyrics. They go so well with this chapter it's crazy.

_You make me sick_

_Because I adore you so._

_I love all the dirty tricks._

_The twisted games you play._

_Always._

_You make us want to die_

_I'll cut your name in my heart_

_We'll destroy this world for you._

_I know you want me to._

_I feel your pain!_

_Yeah..._

-Muse, Space Dementia.

_Robin's POV_

This jealousy is pointless. Yet just because I aknowledge that doesn't mean the feelings will go away.

I can't tell whether he was using that pretty Asian woman to get me upset and obsessive or if he genuinely likes her. I'd almost rather it be the first one; although it would be scheming, deceptive and down right mean, it would mean that Slade held me in enough prominence to do something like that enough to win my affections. And I guess he's brainwashed me so much that prominence in his heart is all I can really ask for now; all I really want.

But if he really likes her... loves her, I guess, then it means that everything he's ever told me has been a lie; use my emotions as a tool so that his apprentice will never disobey him. Clever, really. With my emotions like this, I know that I can never truly disobey him; and he knows it. I hope that is not all I am; not just a tool to him.

_You're just mad that you were about to give in; about to take his side and let him have his way with you. But he chose her instead._

I hate my logic. I keep my pathetic emotions in check, though. I am Robin, right? Teen wonder. Batman taught me to be better than this. And that small memory of Starfire keeps ridiculing me; telling me over and over how perverted I am, how warped, twisted, ugly inside I've become. Despite myself, I don't care very well for that voice anymore. Batman once told me that whatever I want, I should do all in my power and more in order to grasp it. Good advice.

Of course, I don't sleep. And of course, I don't go to my room like Slade told me to. I wait stubbornly in the cold lobby, slouched against a wall, trying to hear something, anything, but they are too far away and all I can hear are the slow hums of computers. My eyes go to rest on the monitors displaying my friend's insides almost proudly, and I feel myself go into a trance as I watch their blood cells hypnotically glide through their veins, small, sentient, metallic things clinging hungrily.

Maybe... I'd be spared a lot of pain if I'd just choose the winning side... his side...

I'm snapped from my thoughts when I hear quick foot steps, high heels, coming closer, sounding rushed. This is my chance. I don't move. I can see her across the room. Slinking against the shadows, I've learned how to use my surroundings better than I thought; she doesn't notice me when I'm merely a few feet away.

Heh. Slade's training wasn't pointless after all. I'm using his training to attack his wench.

Wait, what? Why am I thinking of attacking an innocent? She did nothing wrong, from my standpoint; I shouldn't get down to such a personal level. What am I doing?

I caught myself thinking like Slade again.

Before my personal doubts can hinder me, I strike out, unsheathing my bo staff like the wind and extending it; trying hard not to let myself hurt her, I push her against a wall; she doesn't notice a single thing until she is slammed against the wall, and she screams; but that is easily fixed by pushing my bo staff up against her throat. Can't let her alert Slade.

"If you want to keep that pretty face, you'll be quiet." Trying to make threatening words sound non threatening is a fool's tribulation.

"Why are we leaving so soon?" I ask her in an acutely fake nice guy voice.

"Slade is done with me! When he is done, he tells me to leave immediately afterwards. Please, I did nothing wrong!"

Yes. You did many a thing wrong. You just can't see it through my eyes.

She naturally quiets herself enough for me to lessen my pressure on her neck. "Who are you and what are you to Slade?"

She looks incredibly frightened. I bet she regrets calling me a little boy earlier. She says, her English even sloppier when she is afraid, " I am merely a lady of the night, if you know what I mean, my boy."

She seems comfortable now. Not good. I increase the pressure again. "Keep talking."

It's difficult for her to speak under such pressure, but I really don't care. "Slade rescued me.. in Cambodia. Prisoner of war, my girls and I were. He-got a flesh wound to the head-- I nursed him back to health-- kept him company when his wife shot him."

"Ah, yes; but what a beauty he is in bed!" She swoons, her mouth turning up into a smile, revealing slightly yellowed teeth, " and that is coming from a woman who has been around the block a few times..." She grins down at me and can probably see my look of disgust and indignation.

"You're nasty." I say, not knowing what to say but what is floating around in my mind.

"Yes, but are we both not? You desire him too, yes?"

The words don't hurt me as much as they should; instead, with one hand, I use the bo staff to swipe her by the neck and knock her to the ground; her dress flutters around her and for a moment, she actually looks pretty.

Funny. The thought of abusing a defenseless woman doesn't make me sick as it used to. Perhaps because my stupid brain thinks she desurves it.

She eyes me like a child that just got spanked by their parent, all the while her hands shakily go down her legs and down to her stockings, where she pulls out a cigarette and a small lighter. She jerkily lights it and sucks up the cancerous smoke nervously.

"That's a bad habit," I mock, trying to get her mad. The hostility between us is thick in the normally thin, cold air.

"So is denying your feelings when they are very transparent." She counters, smirking up at me, and blowing the air from her fag at me. I wave it away with a swipe of my hand, glaring down at her from beyong my mask. She is smarter than I thought.

"Don't come here again: better yet, don't come near Slade at all. No more keeping him company, no more hanging all over him, no more seducing him, nothing."

I leave out the 'Or else' part. Honestly, I don't know what I'd be capable of if she or anyone else dared to do what she did again. I hope she gets the picture.

She looks angry, and then, realizing I mean what I say, she stumbles upward, spitting her cigarette disrespectfylly at my feet. She takes out a small controle with few buttons on it, probably given to her by Slade to make sure that she left but I wouldn't be able to. Just another twinge of jealousy; she got Slade, _and_ gets to leave. I don't know what makes me more envious.

She opens the remote controlled door and then spins around angrily, looking like she's about to cry.

"You know, I did love Slade. When he was a prince charming, and the thought of having an affair with none other than Deathstroke the Terminator was exciting. But now I see that you and he are just beasts. You're meant for eachother! A crazy, homicidal pedophiliac and his morbid Boy Wonder."

"Just get out." I coldly say, her words stinging at me, finally hitting their point, no matter how little damage they do.

With out another word she leaves, and the doors slam behind her, leaving me in darkness, and to brood over what I did tonight. I hurt a defenseless woman because of my own selfishness-stole her dignity-and took away the one man she loved.

I smash the red-tipped cigarette with my boot with all my strength, leaving it all but annihilated by the unforgiving steal covering of my leather boot.

And it all felt good.

_Slade's POV_

The human mind is a trivial thing. So wrapped up in its own complexities that it does not even notice that its own simple weaknesses are being exploited. Both fell for it. Robin, Lili. So easy to confuse and pit against eachother when a single desire is set between them, the desire being myself.

It is true that Lili caught me by surprise, but it turned out to be an unexpected blessing. Her natural love and affection for me was a simple tool to exploit, even better was her flirtatious mannerisms. What better way to drive away the wedge between I and my apprentice than giving him a romantic rival?

Several years ago I may have felt remorse for toying with a former lover's feelings. But as I've said, there's no more room for ethics in my life. Lili is a shell of what she once was. I'm looking for someone a little more... youthful.

I wasn't sure that it would work. Robin is an enigma; he can be both cautious and calm and then brash an unthinking. I had to push him into a wall so that all he could do was let go of that cautious, detective side of him and let his feelings for me take over that part of his mind.

After giving Lili what she asked for, I made her leave, as always. She's good for nothing but relieving 'stress' and nothing more now.

It's easy to brainwash something. Especially when it is a child. Of course, Robin is no ordinary child, by any means; but even so, he is still susceptible to what makes them vulnerable. And that's what makes this all the more fun and arousing for me.

And it did work. A monitor in the bedroom displayed her leaving and my apprentice's application of the enhanced basics I've taught him the past weeks; but what was even better was his threats; his aggression; his pure, nearly ferocious jealousy was almost too erotic to witness.

I could take him for myself, if I wanted to. And I _do_ want to. More than I dare to tell. But no. I prefer to make him squirm. Make him work for what he wants. Make him earn it.

And the release for the both of us will be all the sweeter in the end.

_Robin's POV_

"Slade!" I cry, kicking open the door of his room, finally recalling where it had been located. My eyes widen and my breath stops when I see the sight on the bed; his lanky, muscular form laying somewhat drowsily on its side, completely naked with only a simple, almost see through white sheet covering just below his protruding hip bones. The lights are dim and soothing, but I am not in the mood to be lulled.

He's got a glass of wine held deftly in his long fingers, staining his lips a deeper color than usual. His one cold blue eye looks up and sends a chill through me.

"I've been waiting for you." His voice is silkier than usual. I don't let myself get caught up in the moment.

"You're disgusting." I hiss, my actions completely contradicting my words as I stomp angrily to the bed and I grab his short, slightly curled beard in my fingers and yank him forward into a crooked kiss, my lips landing on the corner of his slightly parted mouth.

He stiffens up so as not to spill the contents of his delicate wine glass, and perhaps from the pain of having his beard practically torn out. Considering this for a moment, I decidedly run my fingers through the hair of the assaulted beard gently, in apology. He let's out a groan. Apparently my apology accepted.

We kiss for a long moment before I'm forced to breathlessly cut it off. "That's... for being a condescending bastard earlier."

I guess we both know the extreme irony in everything that's just happened. I'm just as disgusting as he is. I just don't embrace it as much.

He looks away from me for a moment, bringing the shining glass filled with blood-like alcohol to his lips and drinking sparingly. "Where'd you learn to talk to _me_ that way?" The sudden coldness of his voice breaks me down as I remember when he choked me in the shower: when he smashed my mouth up with his bo staff.

"I... I'm sorry. Forgive me." I bow my head and burry my face in the covers.

I hear him chuckle to himself. "Very obedient..." He pets my hair, making it even more straight in his fingers. " Good to know you know your _place_..." His hand jerks my chin up from the bed forcefully, "But also good to see your true feelings showing."

I turn my face away for fear that it'll betray me, stubbornly. Doesn't matter. He knows everything.

"You didn't have to kick the door open. It wasn't locked. I knew you were coming. My cameras. They captured it all, Robin..." Oh, god. I forgot. His hidden cameras. Then, he saw me abuse his woman. A sort of guilt rises up within me like when a parent knows of their child's misdeads.

"You're not angry?" My voice sounds more worried than I should let it, and I flinch at his super villainous laughter.

"Angry, no. I've never been more proud of you."

A wave of relief and something close to happiness washes over me,"Really?" I question, skeptical of his truthfulness, but still flustered at his words. The hand that he is not using to hold the wine snakes to my chin and traces my jaw line lazily. It feels a lot better now that he is not wearing those metal gloves.

I'm unwillingly drawn into his touch like a kitten getting stroked by its master...

"Yes... it's not every day that I get to see you release that facade and actually let your 'mask' slip off. I chiefly enjoyed it when you choked her with your staff and knocked her to the ground..." His voice strains in the last few words of his sentence as if he were having sex, causing me to blush at the thought. I feel a stab of guilt in basically my feelings expressed through his words. "I didn't... mean to, it's just, she was..." He takes a long, meandering sip of wine and then presses his finger against my lips to shut me up.

His utter calmness makes me nervous. "There's no reason to try and justify your actions. I _know_ why you did it. That's enough to satisfy me. And for being such an excellent apprentice... I'm going to give you your just reward..."

Oh, god. I don't want this to go any further. He's _nude _for god's sake. It's difficult to resist glancing downwards. I'm not naive, I know what he wants, but for some reason, more than half of me wants to just give up and give it to him.

_Third Person POV_

In a small, Jump City airport, seemingly blending in with the bustling crowds of people, a British gent. by the name of Wintergreen, garbed in a sullen looking trench coat and a black ski cap, causing his curly white hair to poke out at the edges, sat alone on one of the many benches.

Hunched over a newspaper, he curled his mustache nervously, distractedly, as he read a most distressing article. Part of it read:

_Teen Titans; Losing their touch?_

_Crime in Jump City swells 42 percent._

_Population dwindling and crime rate rising; where are the Teen Titans? This is what this journalist would like to know. Inside sources speculate that this drastic change in the once perfect city is due to a missing member and leader of the team._

_Police Commisioner Marv Perez states, " Robin was always leading the team on, helping us in investigations, balancing Gotham, Jump City and Bludhaven all on his shoulders at once. Gotham and Bludhaven are holding up ok; we got Batman and Batgirl to thank for that. But Jump City, his stomping grounds, is hurting."_

_City Council member George Wolfman explains, "Just in the last few weeks, H.I.V.E has staked a good foot hold in the city government. Costumed crooks like Jhonny Rancid, Mumbo Jumbo, and Dr. Light and running rampid, and although the Teen Titans seem to quell some of the pain, much of the crime goes unnoticed and uncared for."_

_So, is this the end of the Teen Titans? Perhaps the beginning of the end. One can only speculate what happened to the teen leader of this bunch of crusader kids. One thing's for sure; we could all really use his help._

The old man's hands shook. Slade, what are you doing? He wondered in his head, over and over again, so much so that he barely noticed someone tapping on the back of his newspaper. The old man jumped and pressed the newspaper against his legs to see who it was.

It was a tall, gentile looking man also in a heavy dark coat, with a short, elegant mustache and a receding black/grey hair. He held an aura of manneristic charm about him.

"Who... who are you? I seem recognize you from somewhere before..." The old man stuttered.

"Alfred Pennyworth. And _you _are sir William Wintergreen. We have met once before."

Wintergreen nodded, still confused about what the man sought from him. In the back of his mind, he already knew.

"My master would like to have a word with you, if you wouldn't mind coming outside with me, and we will discuss i-"

The butler was cut off when the loud airport speakers boomed, "Coasts Airline; route Buckinghamshire England"

"That is my flight," said Wintergreen, getting up. Alfred, however, struck out and grabbed the older man's arm, keeping him from leaving; Neither gentleman wanted a struggle.

"Please sir," Alfred mouthed, " It is not everyday that Bruce Wayne requests an attendence of you. It will only take a moment. And I assure you that Bruce Wayne will be able to schedual another flight for you to make up for our rude intrusion."

Wintergreen remembered all too well the last time he and Bruce Wayne had met. And that time, it had also been concerning Slade.

Soon, before he knew it, he was being led out of the airport and down a sidewalk to a waiting black limousine. Alfred courtiously opened the door, and soon the car was moving, with Alfred as the driver and the two men sitting in the back.

"Hello, William Wintergreen. We meet again." said Bruce Wayne, his voice somewhat cheerful sounding but not looking happy in the least. But then again, his strange, blue eyes, jet black hair and constant scowl could intimidate anyone.Wintergreen never really knew what the man was thinking. He very well thought the man mad, but then again, he and Slade posessed so many similar traits, it was no wonder.

"Nice to see you again, Master Wayne..." Wintergreen said, almost fearfully.

"I'm afraid I will have to be very, very frank with you, my friend. I called you away from your travels to ask you for your help. I assume you've read the papers, seen the news? The Teen Titans are falling apart, but most of all, Robin, my former ward, is missing."

"Now, as you know, I'm a... 'part time' detective. And all evidence points to no one other than Slade Wilson, your former employer and army veteran."

A sort of anger boiled up in Wintergreen at the thought of his former friend. " Master Wayne, I would like you to know that I have cut off all ties with him. I no longer serve him and have nothing to do with him anymore. I was actually on my way home, to Britain, where I belong."

"I understand, Wintergreen. You're a good man. But I'm afraid you're not at all finished with this...whole thing yet. You have one more part to play. I have a favor to ask of you, if you will care to listen... and all I can ask is your help in saving my only son."

_Slade's POV_

"Uhn, Slade!"

I didn't bother taking off anything but his pants. What would be the point? I keep having to remind myself that this is for him; it's his reward. This will be a true test of my restraint.

My heart races as my lips close around his boyish portrusion, his gasping and crying out my name only spurring me on, causing me to let out my own sounds of pleasure, mixing and dancing with his as I nearly lovingly give him his well deserved reward.

Honestly, I've never had the pleasure of doing this before. I bare down on him with my teeth, my lips brushing up against his small singe of hair; He writhes, cries for help, his knees and legs lashing out and finally resting against my shoulders.

I let my tongue do the work as my head bobs up and down; sadly, the boy has little restraint and within minutes comes, his body shaking, certainly unused to the new feeling. The sinful feelings that have long since become a faithful companion for me.

_Robin's POV_

I wish I could describe to you the sensations that I just held witness to, but I'm afraid that I'm at a loss for words; and breath. My legs are still spread wide, covered in a cold sweat, when he lays between them, ontop of me, his weight feeling almost crushing but soon I get used to it.

I'm glad that I'm wearing a mask. Otherwise I'd probably look like a fool right now. My breath is still hard and erratic and he touches my face in an attempt to calm me down; queerly, it works, and he begins distractedly wiping beads of sweat from my face.

"Did you like your reward?" He asks, his hands going down to rest at my neck, closing around it, reasserting his power over me, making me feel more than a little jumpy.

" Of course I did." I only tell the truth and nothing but the truth.

He looks satisfied, and his grip around my neck softens and so does his weight as he rolls off from ontop of me and onto his side of the bed.

I stare at him, my eyes behind my mask wide. Compelled by some strange thing inside me, I reach out to touch his shoulder- my gloves still on- and I try to pull him closer to me. He turns around to face me, looking confused, waiting for me to explain myself. He must be used to sex and then being alone. I guess I'm not.

"Don't... turn your back on me... after all that." I stutter. I tell the truth and nothing but the truth. After all that, I'm almost afraid of being alone.

He looks like he's about to laugh at me again, but instead decides to keep his mouth shut and instead wrap a single arm around me.

"I won't if you won't, pretty bird."

FIN

AAAHHHH! That was SO difficult and strange to write. I didn't want a mushy end so I guess that's as mushy as things are gonna get right now. Lol yes, if you consider blow jobs and strangling mushy. I will only allow a certain level of OOCness. Because you know Slade's all uber casual sex-like and Robin... well, he's pretty brainwashed already. But love's love, right? And Wintergreen and Bruce join forces! Ehh, I guess I'm just writing the kind of story I'd like to read, sue me. Anyway... review and I'll keep writing. Hope you digged it.

P.S. I threw in some Marv Wolfman and George Perez references.


	8. Your Beautiful Shattered Will

The Bird and his Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SlxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.

Disclaimor: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material posessions. I like my material posessions...

Please do not take or archive without permission.

Notes: I'm trying to write as much of this as I can before school begins. (because then updates will be slower) I'm particularly fond of the SlxR bit at the end. (cuddling is so totally better than limes!) Tell me what you think. (it may be the last touchy-feely scene for a while because the next chapter may get a little plot heavy.)

A few shout outs to people who have made my day:

Thank you **Lady of Faerie** for putting this story on your C2! 0O claps

Thank you **Braeca** for your thoughtful review-at first I was intimidated by the length of it and thought at first glance it to be a flame, but I was thrilled to find that it was just your honest opinion and constructive criticism. From now on, I'll be spell checking. (and perhaps correcting earlier chapters if I have time) But I'm really flattered at the compliments you gave me as well! Hope you care to keep reading.

Thank you **Rose Eclipse**, I'm glad my favorite AMV creator likes my story. -

70 reviews, sweet! Let's see if we can get to 80. XD Considering this is my first real fic I've ever written before, I hope you continue to stay along for the ride and help me make it a success. Thank you everyone who reads and everyone who reviews. You've made me the happiest little Klorbag ever! oO

_Slade's POV_

Smoke and ashes and splinters of wood fall about me resulting from the passed struggle. The room is cold and concrete, a dirty warehouse. I don't hear anything, as if my world is stuck on mute. Like a movie playing before my eyes. I know that no matter how much I wish, how much I plead, I can't go back and fix the mistakes.

I watch myself through the television of my mind, the memories all too real for me. I watch myself as I face three men in the room, two with masks and another wearing a simple trench coat. His face is wrought with pleasure at my pain, an ugly man, with a pig-like face going by the code name 'The Jackal.'

The smug pig-like man gestures to one of the masked cohorts, who is holding a hostage tightly in his arms with a knife against its neck. But it isn't just any hostage to me this time.

My little boy. Joe. Little Joe's face, framed by curly blonde hair, is stiff with confusion. He's still wearing his green pajamas from before he'd been abducted, all the more heightening his aura of pure innocence. He's not even old enough to know what's going on, but I can see that the pain of the kidnapper's grip and the slow cutting of his neck is enough to paint his baby-faced features with fright.

Addie, her normally curly brown hair matted and fatigued, clings to my arm, pulling at me-pleading at me-tears streaming down her face covered in faultering make up. She's screaming and crying, but no sound can I hear.

Oh, god. Why won't you stop screaming? Don't you know I can't hear you? I can't hear you through my blind pride. I _had _to show Jackal that I was the best. I thought I was good enough.

I was _wrong_.

By the time I reacted, I was too late. A third of a second too late and too proud and too ignorant.

I gaze, stricken with horror as the knife slices through skin and vocal cords, blood bubbling under the steel until the pressure gives way and the all too familiar red substance sprays out. His eyes are wide filled with panic, but I can't hear him scream. Transfixed, the memory goes on until Joe's formerly youthful, pink lips turn purple and his eyes roll back into his forehead, as the Jackal takes away everything he had and everything he'd ever be.

"Joe!" I hear myself scream, as if it's not coming from my own lips but someone else's. Shocked out of my own dream, my torso flies up from the mattress. My hand instinctively clutches at my dead eye socket, crumpling the black patch that tries to hide the scars so valiantly.

The bitter air attacks the cold, stressed sweat all over my body and I'm consumed by the pure darkness of the room. I hear the boy beside me give a moan and my neck snaps in his direction; but he only stirs a moment and rolls back onto his stomach, tangled in a fitful dream no doubt. Robin...

You and I both.

My breath's still ragged, as my hand slowly sinks from my face and lands in a fist against the bed, my jagged teeth in an expressive snarl of pain.

I hate sleeping. Sleep takes away my consciousness, and that takes away my controle. Sleep shows me things I don't want to see, things I would _never_ choose to see again. Every time I attempt the normal human period of rest and relaxation, that dream comes back to me. I won't make the mistake of falling asleep again.

Broad shoulders shaking slightly with fatigue, I prop myself up on my elbows and watch the boy beside me. He really is a beautiful thing while he sleeps.

After his reward I suppose he trusted me enough to remove the rest of his clothes, because his chest is now bare, and his back peeks up from the white sheets covering him. His silky, black hair, falling in front of his perfectly shaped and detailed face...

In front of that mask. That mask that hides his final truth from me. That mask. That damnable mask. Someday I'll take that mask off. Peel it off and take all the secrets it holds, and all the innocence.

He doesn't snore, barely makes a sound besides his soft, nearly hypnotic breathing. I wonder, perhaps I gave him his reward too soon. But he was so aggressive. He actually took the initiative and impressed the hell out of me. He had the gall to grab me like that, total caution thrown to the wind. That's what turned me on the most. How could I _not_ give him what he'd so rightfully earned for the night?

Yet I already hunger for so much more from him. I can already sense that his loyalty and love for me is growing... but it just wouldn't be Robin if he didn't present an interesting challenge.

Suddenly I hear him gasp.

"S...st"

I turn my head around to see him, still deep within his own dream, half expecting my name to be spoken from his unconcious lips.

"Starfire...!" He breathes out, clutching at the sheets in a pained way, to my true surprise; and distaste. Something hardens inside of me and suddenly the good things I was feeling disapear and are replaced with placid hatred. Her very name annoys me to no end.

Shifting my weight, I sit up and stand up away from the mattress, naked. I pull on the thin, spandex-like kevlar suit, boots, my belt, and the cumbersome metal stomach, shoulder, thigh, knee, and lower leg guards along with the metal bracers and black/silver gloves. Finally I snap the microbe's remote controle to my hand and put the mask in place.

I stare at the single red button, so close to my thumb and I'm tempted to push it right now and extinguish my female rival's miserable existence- but I don't. Why?

It would be _far _more pleasurable to watch Robin do it himself.

In full gear, I stalk out of the room, clenching my fists. Patience.

_Third Person POV_

"Robin is your son?" Asked Wintergreen inquisitively. Bruce paused a moment.

"Well-Soon to be son-" He said, his eyes avoiding the old man's for a second, "-the legal system is a bothersom thing."

Wintergreen nodded absent mindedly.

"But he may never become my son if I don't find him soon. As you may already know, Slade helped me a few years ago in tracking down a man by the name of Jeremy Barker... well, I was tracking him down to get information from him about the Gotham organized crime to the police... Slade kidnapped him for his own reasons that still confound me. Ultimately he cooperated and earned my trust."

Wintergreen nodded again.

Bruce turned his head fully to him for the first time since the car had even started moving, his pale eyes looking strange against his pale skin, his eyes piercingly accusing. " I assume you know of my 'identity' then?"

To someone normal, this question would sound vague coming out of the blue. But not for Wintergreen. He knew of the dark knight's adventures and he knew of his shaken companionship with Slade from many years ago. He knew that Bruce Wayne was the urban legend called Batman.

"Yes. Slade told me of it." Wintergreen felt most humbled in the man's presence.

Bruce nodded with satisfaction. " That's good. I think I can trust you. Slade Wilson helped me a lot back then. I trust he's still an assassin?"

"No," Said Wintergreen, sighing, " He protects people wanted by the law."

Bruce chuckled to himself sounding almost spiteful. "Still illegal, as always."

"He hasn't killed for money since his young son was killed by a fellow competitive terrorist." Said Wintergreen. He made sure to add 'for money' since Slade most did definitely kill when it was beneficial to a mission or simply when the mood struck him.

"I see... I can understand his need for redemption..." He sounded sad and looked as if he was staring into the past at a painful memory.

"Mr.Wayne, "said Wintergreen, sounding guilty, "I saw Robin... he _is_ with Slade. I cared for him while I could."

Wayne was overjoyed at this revelation but skillfully hid it behind his eyes. He rarely let emotion escape them anymore. "Then it _was_ him after all... I knew in the back of my mind, but I couldn't know for sure. He'd always expressed interest in meeting Robin, but I never allowed it... and then Robin severed our ties and helped found the Teen Titans in Jump City..."

"The last time I saw Robin, he had a terrible fever, possibly caused by lack of sunlight. And Slade was-" _(chapter four)_

The oldest man caught his tongue. He didn't want to tell Bruce what Slade had been doing to Robin in that dark room, late at night. It would break the man's heart-if he still had one under that mysterious facade. Bruce waited for him to speak, raising an eyebrow.

"-out. Not there."

Why couldn't Wintergreen have simply told Bruce the truth? He was supposed to have cut the ties that bound them. But sadly there seemed to stay one nagging thread, and it wouldn't let him soil Slade's name.

The two of them were silent. Wintergreen hoped he hadn't sounded too suspicious, but Bruce just cleared his throat. "So, I suppose you know of my proposition... the Teen Titans are losing the battle; their footing is slipping and it'll only take one simple trip from Wilson to make them faulter and break."

"I need your help, William," Said Bruce, becoming more serious than ever, " I need you to tell me where Wilson is hiding- but I also need to you to tell the Teen Titans of Robin's whereabouts as well."

"Pardon me sir, but... don't you think it would be suspicious of me to help the Titans if they knew I was Slade's former aid? I mean, they'd trust _you_..."

"No," Bruce's voice started to sound hurt, " The last time I spoke to Robin he ordered me to cut off my ties to him and wanted to get out from under my shadow. If I were to help him now, all I would be doing would be betraying his trust- and he'd hate me more than he already does. This is the Teen Titan's fight; his fight alone, but you're already a player in all of this. You've simply switched sides."

Hadn't he?

Wintergreen nodded respectfully. " I understand. But I don't think Robin _hates_ you... I think he simply wanted to be independent. To be a man for himself. But... I'll help you..."

Bruce looked relieved. "Good. I'll pay for a hotel for you to stay in, and you can make your decision for yourself."

Wintergreen blinked a few times, confused. "Master Wayne, I've already made my decision..." said he, indignantly.

Bruce shook his head. "I can sense that you haven't. You still call him by his first name... with affection in your voice. And if you betray him without fully ridding yourself of his influence, then you'll just be hurting yourself."

For the first time, Wayne put his hand on Wintergreen's shoulder and smiled-well, more like a self-confident smirk than anything else, " Don't do the right thing just because it's right. Do the right thing because you _know_ it's right."

Wintergreen sat in awe. Wayne really was the world's greatest detective. How could he know all that from just a simple conversation?

The car came to a halt soon at a five star hotel that Wintergreen had stayed in once before. Alfred opened the door and Wintergreen simply, akwardly, waved goodbye and said thank you to Bruce and left the limousine without another word. They didn't need to exchange goodbyes.

Had he really changed sides at all?

_Robin's POV_

Oh, god.

The slickness of his tongue... Licking feverishly...Passionately...The comforting warmth of his breaths between my spread legs...

What's wrong with me?

I just let him. I just _let_ him. It won't get out of my mind.

Not so much as a single struggle. Not only physically, but mentally as well. My doubts were pushed aside the minute he shoved my legs apart and got started. And why? Probably just because it felt _so damn good_. But something else. Something else I've already said before. It's because I'm broken. Slowly, delicately, lovingly, he's chipping away at me until I become his finest piece of art. Smoothing out the uneeded edges, making it perfect, sculpting me into his ideal.

Why don't I stop him?

Because I _can't_. I don't want to stop him anymore.

That's what I've learned here. Maybe it's just because I'm so broken down, but I can't defy him. I'm almost afraid of what he'll do to me if I ever truly tried. I mean, he smashed up my jaw and shattered one of my teeth, and it didn't even phase him. In fact, he just took that opportunity to try and get into my pants.

The sight of his head rhythmically bobbing up and down...

I guess I'm truly going mad for him.

I just lay in the bed, thinking. Slade's gone. I suppose he left while I was asleep. I still can't believe that I could even fall asleep beside him. I guess I didn't have a choice, but still...

When he asked me to kiss him,_ (chapter five)_ I thought that seeing his face would make him weaker-and make me stronger. I guess I thought that knowing he was flesh and bone would quell the fear. That's why I did it. I thought knowing him would give me an edge, let me get inside his head. But it didn't. It only let him sneak further into mine.

Instead of simply a shadow with a mask, disapearing when the sun rises, like I'd always thought of him, he's now something startlingly real; and sadly alluring.

I thought he'd be ugly, thought I'd be repulsed by him- why else would he wear a mask? I thought that if I wasn't attracted to him, it would be easier to think about how much I love Starfire... I thought it would motivate me to see her and our friends again.

I was wrong about that, too. I found out that the man behind the mask wasn't aesthetically ugly nor was he repulsive- but shockingly, immorally, charmingly tall, dark and handsome, and I've begun to fall for him- in a sadistic, master and servant kind of way.

So I've been demotivated by his good looks. But more than that, I'm demotivated because I _know_ that I _want_ to make him proud. And that weakens me into something sickly- begging for his attention. And every time he gives it to me, every time he gives me his 'rewards' I die a little more inside.

I'm getting sucked into his clutches, and the little Starfire in my head is about to take the nose dive in with me.

_(Later)_

Fully dressed, my hair brushed straight down against my face-like Slade likes it- I struggle to finally find my way back to the huge lobby where his throne and the microbe monitors are- and at the top, my statistics. At first glance I'm surprised at how much the little bars and charts have fluctuated since I last looked.

"Robin." His lilting voice calls down at me from atop his suspended king's throne; my head jerks up at the sound of his voice, to see him in full costume; his armored legs neatly, tightly crossed like a woman's, but his extremely broad shoulders telling me a different story.

"Come." He flicks out a hand and delicately gestures to me, and I can feel the invisible leash he has on me being jerked- causing me to jog up the steps of the geometric chair with something close to excitement.

Once I get there, he uncrosses his legs and practically spreads them apart. "Sit. In my lap."

Hesitating for a long time, I finally sit down between his legs, both of us facing the screens- feeling strange in such a position.

"Good boy." He lets out, petting my hair in a downward motion. His treating me like a dog is mildly annoying, but I don't say a word.

He's slightly slouched as he uses a remote to highlight and define each of my combat statistics.

"Your skills with a bo staff have increased double fold... but your use of lethal weaponry and explosives leaves a little to be desired... your potential agility is at 86 percent... potential strength at 69 percent... potential accuracy at 79 percent... _exceptional_ at your age... at _any_ age..."

I curl up against his legs and stomach and place my hands against his metal covered chest. "It's only because I have such an _amazing_ teacher." I charmingly cajole, flashing him a confident, boyish smile that could make anyone, no matter how cynical, blush like a school girl. Too bad he's wearing a mask.

There goes the rest of _my_ dignity...

I hear him take a sharp intake of breath, taken aback, and his one eye, lined in thick black, widens sharply behind his almost skeleton-like double colored mask.

"That's why I adore you so." Slade says, his prodigious hand resting over my thin legs. "You're such a smart boy..."

Ok. So I'm letting myself get wrapped up in the moment. It's only this once. It's not like I'm serious or anything. It's not like I mean it or anything...

"We'll be starting theft training tomorrow. But today, you more than deserve a rest."

A rest? I never thought Slade was capable of allowing such a thing. I guess relinquishing all of my dignity and self respect has certain perks.

"Thank you, master." I obediently say, simply sweetening the deal. I can be manipulative too, you know.

Suddenly the screen is wiped clean and my stats are replaced by the recorded video of myself training against Slade's robots. _(Chapter 6) _We simply sit together, watching, his hand absent mindedly kneading my leg. It feels good...

I'm surprised at how well I did and I can sense that he is too. My eyes and my master's as well are on the screen as a me from the not so distant past slings out my staff, swivelling it to knock out five robots: all the while leaping into the air to toss down a small disc that spasmodically exudes a torrent of ice, encasing several more in it's layer; the me on the screen then falls back down on the ice sheet, using it to glide past the frozen enemies and into another wave of henchmen.

"Brilliant." He compliments, petting my head, and a strangely warm and comfortable feeling oozes out of my heart and nearly makes me sick.

The training video goes on and on until every robot was efficiently wiped out by yours truly. Suddenly it cuts and warps and shows a different scene; from a different camera, slightly off center and of a different quality.

In a split second, my feelings of love and comfort are transformed into guilt and resentment.

I watch, my mask growing wide, reflecting the expression of my eyes behind it; it's me, a very enraged me, choking Sweet Lili up against a wall.

_"If you want to keep that pretty face, you'll be quiet."_

_"Why are we leaving so soon?"_

_"Please, I did nothing wrong!"_

_"Ah, yes; but what a beauty he is in bed!"_

_"You're nasty."_

_"Yes, but are we both not? You desire him too, yes?"_

BAM! She lands on the ground and I'm shocked at how hard I actually hit her. Slade lets out a sort of meandering, condescending laughter, causing my stomach to turn against itself.

"That's my favorite part." He muses, running his fingers through my hair.

"T... turn it off..." I stutter out, shutting my eyes and jerking away from his touch. He just grabs me again though.

His metal-covered fingers curl around my shoulders, his voice dripping with a sadistic satisfaction. "Can't face the truth of what you really are, can you, Robin...?"

"No." I answer sharply. I don't want to see myself like that. Hurting something selfishly.

"But it's what you are and you can't change it, can you...?" His booming laughter has died completely down into a hoarse whisper.

"No."

"Batman was never confident in you the way I am, was he...?"

"No." He yanks me back even closer, into his touch, his voice going even deeper into my ears.

"Never brought you up to his own level like I have, did he...?"

"No."

"And the Tamaranian girl... she never made love to you the way I have, did she...?" His breath is hot against my neck and the back of my ear, coming out uniformed due to the slim grates in his mask.

"...No."

The pure intensity in his voice is starting to scare me straight.

"Never made you feel so _good_..."

Get out of my head.

The movie plays until the picture fizzles and warps again and then disapears, revealing the completely blank, black screen of the monitor. The only light now comes from the four microbe monitors far below us, casting us both in a thick, red, warm light, the color of blood. Our reflections are dimly cast in the large, onyx screen.

"Why do you have to do that...?" I ask, feeling as vulnerable as I sound. I'm pathetic.

"Do what?" He asks innocently, playing with my hair.

"Know me so well..." I sound like a kid who just got pwned at a sport... and is trying to make excuses built on broken pride.

"It's what I do best."

I hear his mask click off behind me, and I ready myself for a breath-taking kiss: but instead, the mask is harshly, sharply placed, snapped onto my face; too big for me but fitting none the less, shocking me.

My eyes grow wide as I look in the screen, at us, at me, wearing the mask, and suddenly all that Slade has ever said and ever told me becomes undeniably irrefutable. His hands snake around me and hug me, lovingly. I'm too choked up by his well-placed symbolic visual to deny his advance.

"Now you look just like me... like we do on the inside." He breathes out in pure ecstacy, and he begins licking and suckling my neck hungrily, creating what some people call a hickey on the exposed part of my neck; sending nearly painful shocks down to my groin. My world is spinning and I tightly shut my eyes to keep from looking in the mirror. At my grotesque appearance. At that skeleton-like mask planted on my face.

I'm paralyzed in his arms and all I can do is let out the traitorous sounds my body so painfully wants to make. He nibbles on it for good measure and when he's done, throws me down in his seat and rises up, dwarfing me. I quickly rip the mask off of my face, desperately clutching it in my hands, my face resembling the look of a beaten and battered child, gazing up at their parent who just did the unthinkable deed unto them.

His face is now exposed to me, blood red light highlighting his light blonde hair, shaggy in front of his devilishly handsome face. The red light casts against his many intertwining muscles, against his black spandex, and for a moment, he's a magnificent creature to me. He smerks down at me, leaving me spralled out on his throne and looking positively satisfied with his work.

"You can keep that one. I have plenty." He says, and I can't tell whether he's talking about the mask that I now hold in my hands or the scar he just branded into my neck.

And with that, he begins flipping down the stairs and then disappears into the shadows with the greatest of stealthy ease. I'm getting a little tired of that disappearing act, myself...

Feeling the most vulnerable and alone I ever have, I curl up in the spot he once sat and hug his mask to my chest, rocking back and forth to keep the unpleasant thoughts away.

I'm falling to his side. into his clutches. Falling for him. His advances are too much for me. His logic. I can't find any reason to argue anymore. I _need_ a reason...

I'm completely broken. More like shattered.

I just wish someone could just... catch me... before I fall...

FIN (To be continued)

Yeah, I thought the FIN at the end of each chapter was a little misleading, so I added to be continued. Well, what did you think? That end part got a little too deep and too long for my tastes, but that was supposed to be sort of the grand finale hoorah for the last of Robin's resistance... but yeah... went longer than I expected it to. We'll see more of the ramifications in the next chapter.

So, Robin's finally given up the fight.Slade's still an evil bastard who likes hickeys and bad dreams and Bruce and Wintergreen are still in cahoots and shall soon bring their plans to fruition. The next chapter will, hopefully, change the story line quite a bit, so... stay tuned and please tell me what you thought in a review. XP thankyou and goodnight.

P.S. every chapter seems to be getting longer and longer in word count. oo


	9. Paedo Paramour

The Bird and his Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SlxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.

Disclaimor: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material posessions. I like my material posessions...

Please do not take or archive without permission.

Notes:This has been the longest delay between chapters for a number of reasons. One, school and homework has a way of taking up time and killing creativity. Two, I had to cut out a lot out of this chapter. Three, I went to a concert in another state and haven't had access to the computer for a while. The story of this chapter starts to intermingle a whole lot with the TV show, but this is still an AU... so... I demand artistic license! A lot of things were changed because they wouldn't fit... it got really jumbled up and confusing and ughh... I took a lot of liberties. Forgive me. Mostly Robin and Slade's encounter in the end was changed a lot, but for the most part it is very similar to the opening act of Apprentice pt.2.

The transcript of Apprentice pt.2 really helped me out with dialogue and facts, so I give a lot of credit to them. Also, this chapter takes place a month after the last one, so Robin has already been in theft training for some time.

Thank you all for reviewing and lets see if this can reach 100 reviews. XD That would be awesome. But I'm still awed that people are reading it and enjoying it.

_Robin's POV_

The two of us sit side by side, probably closer than we should be for two young kids. The cart we're in clinks and jerks, painted colorfully with a large three plastered on the front. The ferris wheel brings us to the top and pauses, and the mechanical sounds cease for a moment so that all we can hear are the roaring fireworks in front of us. The colored lights dance with the pale stars of the evening and all seems well in our hearts.

The smell of candy and hot leather and freshly cut grass, mingling with the delighted and sometimes frightened screams of children and adults alike makes me feel like I'm almost back in time, back in the atmosphere of the circus...

Seeing her beside me though, the memories don't feel so bad. Her bright green eyes are only illuminated further by the pyrotechnics going off infront of us, and I'm convinced that the vision of beauty beside me is much more enchanting than the fireworks. She sighs blissfully, resting her head on her hands, her dark red hair falling to the side of her face, and I sort of wish she'd rest her head on my shoulder instead.

A particularly elaborate firework goes off and she stares in awe. "Beautiful... tell me again what they are called?"

"Fireworks." I answer as several smaller ones go off, and the pretty alien's brow furrows in concern, her back straightening.

"On my home planet, such explosions would mean the Gordanians were attacking. You are certain Earth is not under attack?"

"Positive. Cotton candy?"

She gives an 'ick' sort of look, closing one eye adorably. "Last time I ate a ball of cotton, it was _white_, and it did not taste very..."

"This is different." I say, tearing off a piece of the sugary confection for myself to show her it's harmless. I don't mind her naivete', it's probably why I find her so cute... besides the pretty red hair, beautiful eyes, and curves in all the right places.

She follows my example, and yelps in delight. "It vanished!" She exclaims like a little child.

"Yeah.. it'll do that."

She sighs and once again is back to her awe-inspired little self. " When I first came to this planet, I did not think I would ever fit in... Earth was full of strange things... but now I see that-

She's interrupted by my boyish hoots and hollers, signaling the grand finale of the show, booming and screeching across the night sky in blinding flashes and patterns. But it seems like she's found something far more interesting than the fireworks to gaze at.

"Earth is full of amazing things _too_..." She muses, her head turning and her eyes casting over at me. I turn to her, leaning back into my seat as the last dying embers fall from the sky and disappear.

"Best planet I've ever been to! " I confidently spout, so very in character for me. She gives me one last smile before a large, pink, tentacled machine-like creature yanks her off the ride and sweeps her away from me, marking the beginning of a classic Teen Titans adventure.

"STARFIRE!"

_Slade's POV_

"For heaven's sake, Robin. Is she _all_ you dream about?"

The bird's been murmuring that bitch's name in his sleep for the last five minutes, and I'd had just about enough, more stinging jealousy rising from my chest and into my throat.

It's early morning... And if there were windows, I'm sure we'd be able to hear birds chirping outside. Then again, my base isn't exactly set in an area full of nature... more like an abandoned industrial yard near the docks.

The boy next to me groans in annoyance, shoving his face deeper into his pillow. Days ago I would have taken this as a direct act of offensive insolence, but I suppose his need for rest is reasonable. He'd gotten shot in the leg by a mounted rifle in a training session and hadn't fully recovered yet. Or perhaps he had, and was only using it as a clever excuse to be lethargic. Yes, despite all of the armor he wears, he got shot in the one small area of skin that was not covered. I have reason to think he took the bullet on purpose; Robin is not so clumsy as to get shot so easily, and by a stationary gun no less. But he _is_ skilled enough to stage it and make it look like he was. But why do such a foolish thing?

I'd actually prefer it if he was attempting to trick me; merely proving how much he's changed. He's creating his own tactics to get out of work, and although it is disobeying, I can't help but feel proud of his mischieviously witty mind.

Whether wounded or otherwise, his early-morning drowsyness is a sight to behold. His face turns to mine, pouting at the thought of getting up, his eye lashes fluttering madly until his eyes decidedly choose to close again. His face is almost as pale as the pillow it rests on and his ebony hair, newly washed, is a shaggy mess streaking across his face, and I notice how badly he needs a haircut.

He reminds me of something, but I can't quite put my finger on it.

Feeling coltish, I shift and lay on top of him; both of us obscured by the white crinkled sheets. He lets out a groan of protest but it sounds hollow and fake. He's wearing miniscule black shorts, apparantly not yet comfortable enough to sleep in the nude. Soon enough, he will be.

"It's time to get up and go to school." I say it warmly, like a father would, conversely grinding my readied self into his backside, which is sadly covered in the cloth. His hands shake and clutch at the sheets, but all I receive is a choked muffled sound.

I observe the sweet nape of his neck, rarely touched before. I allow my lips to smooch kisses all the way down until the bed sheets get in the way. Pausing, I lower them further, exposing his back. Robin makes no move or attempt to get away, whether from fear or satisfaction is a mystery, but we'll find out soon enough.

His back isn't as perfect as his neck; a knife slash from the Joker here, a bullet wound or two from Two-Face there, but none of any true severity. Leaning down as if I'm in the act of doing a push-up, I lap a nectareous kiss squarely between his shoulder blades. I certainly hit a sweet spot when he whines and arches into me, his ass fitting up perfectly between my legs.

I nearly lose my composure right there, letting out a strangled groan that must sound more surprised than anything else.

"Robin, " I huff out, holding the sheets tightly, almost angrily in fists, "If you don't get up, your pants are next." My voice is full of anguish while relishing our obscene pose.

Now _fully_ awake, he quickly maneuvers out of the risque' position he'd worked himself into and hops off the bed, nearly a black and white figure. He pads across the room and gathers his clothes and armor and I lay back and watch him with pleasure as he dresses himself.

He fumbles with his clothes and puts them on jerkily, preciously embarrassed and probably straight up dumbfounded. He wraps himself in protective armor and finally clips on the 'S' insignia, completing the outfit, all the while beneath his mask a pink color, diverting his gaze from mine.

He stands in front of the bed, awaiting my approval. Looking him up and down and letting him know it, whilst pushing a stray lock of ash colored hair from in front of my only operating eye, I nod to him and gesture for him to leave. He knows this as permission to go read his assignments for the day.

As he begins to leave, I tease him, " If you ever want to do that again without your breeches on, just say the word..."

He flashes me an angry glare, and I'm glad to see that not all of the fire in him has been put out. He stomps away, his shoulders hunched in anger and stress, and slams the door behind him.

I love that boy.

_Robin's POV_

Practically dying inside as I stalk down the dark hallway, I shake out my hair as well as shaking out my head of the dirty thoughts that Slade has once again planted there so expertly. Talk about a wake up call.

It didn't feel so bad, I mean, up against him like that... and the way he was touching me so gently, what else was I supposed to do? I just did what my body felt was natural at that moment. It's only because I was half asleep, I wouldn't have done that otherwise. I wouldn't.

Clenching my fists tightly, stomping my feet to make as much noise as I can to block out my own spiralling thoughts, I literally _force_ myself to think about the dream I had and about Starfire and how much I loved her.

It's a long walk. I find myself thinking about Slade and Starfire and unfairly comparing. Sad that I'm even considering Slade beside her now. Of course their differences are as clear as day, but... as much as I felt at ease and in love in my dream, I wonder if I'd still feel that way if I ever saw her again. No doubt Slade's constant advances and our time apart has weakened my feelings for her. But how much?

And as much as I'd like to see her again, after all that's happened, I don't know if I could ever be a good match for her. I'm probably so morbid and dirty-minded now, someone as pure as she would never want me.

Arriving in the main room, I find a stack of papers and shift them in my hands until they're orderly. I flip through them, glancing at the locations and statistics of various compounds, buildings, and containment chambers of places that I'm supposed to steal things from for Slade in the future.

These will be my first assignments outside of Slade's hideout. I'm a little nervous, but I'm sure Slade's prepared me for anything. Why am I so confident in him all of the sudden? Perhaps that "amazing teacher" comment I fed him was my real feelings.

I notice the layout of the majority of the papers as a Wayne Industries-esque mapping, making my stomach turn at the sight of it. I just hope I'm wrong about it.

"Like what you see?" The voice I'm gradually beginning to anticipate more and more comes from behind me, his large hands touching my shoulder, making me jump. I feel humbled that I didn't even notice him sneak up on me.

Instead of answering his question, I give him another one in a callous tone of voice. "How do you know I won't just run away?" Referring to the freedom of the outside that these jobs will obviously provide me. I try to sound tough but I'm actually nervous to ask.

He chuckles and tightens his grip slightly. "Do you _really_ wish to leave so badly?"

"No." A momentary industrial-like burst of steam somewhere obscures my voice, so he doesn't hear my answer.

I don't know if I could ever tear myself away from this place. I'm too assimilated with it now. But, he doesn't need to know that.

"You know full well that your instincts won't let you leave this place... but just incase you're tempted... I have a present for you." He takes my hand in his, causing me to feel like melting into a puddle at his feet. A human touch is still a human touch, even coming from someone as inhumane as he.

I realize that this must be what an incestuous relationship feels like. I mean, I can understand why kids would participate in such a thing, and keep their filthy parent's secrets. Wanting nothing more than to please that one single person who happens to be your care taker. But why does Slade continue to push us into that tone of a relationship? I mean, if it turns him on, then... whatever floats his boat... but for some reason, I can't help but think that there's something more to his behavior than just that.

Growing up with the World's Greatest Detective, I'm never comfortable with the short answer. There's always a hidden motive.

He leads me over to a desk near his computer and picks up a tiny object among the scattered objects and papers. A tiny, round object. Before I can hope to stop him, he grabs my wrist and wrenches me forward and proceeds to stick it deeply into my ear with no warning. My hand flies up to my ear where he'd shoved the odd little object, anxiously trying to pull it out, but it won't budge. I pull harder, and he just laughs at my misfortune.

"Don't trouble yourself. The minute it touches your skin, it becomes a part of you. It's impossible to remove unless you feel the urge to amputate your own ear."

I stare at him wide eyed, still fingering the small metal device that, as far as I now, is now part of my body, which is more than a little creepy. "What did you do? What's it for?"

Even the grates in his mask look like they're smiling as he kneels down next to me like a father would when explaining to his child where babies come from.

"I guess you could call it... an invisible leash. When on an escapade I'll be able to track you and know where you are at all times," He allows me to observe his inner wrist, exposing a small speaker-like device latched on to his arm, very close to that damnable button contraption, " And with a flick of my wrist, you'll be able to hear my instructions whenever I deem it fitting."

In a conniving voice he mocks, "But wait-- there's more."

I groan, looking at him from the corners of my mask. I sound more disrespectful than I should, and he notices.

"Dont dare take that tone of voice with me." He warns, slightly raising his hand in a threat.

I cringe. I'd forgotten how much I _hate_ his lectures. "I'm sorry. Master."

With his previously elivated hand he begins to trace the curves of my ear with his cold, long metal finger. "Good boy. Now... in addition to letting me know your exact location _and_ letting me speak to you whenever I want... I've programmed it to give you a... mild correction... if you ever go near Titans Tower without my permission."

I raise an eyebrow, wary. "Mild correction?"

"First, a small radio-wave signal will alert you when you're too close. If you do not comply and retreat from the restricted area, namely Titans Tower, you will be delivered a high voltage shock. If you still do not retreat, the device will automatically activate the probes in your former team's bodies, killing them."

My shoulders slump and I mumble, "It really is a leash..."

He nods and touches my shoulder, probably noticing the pained look on my face. He's silent, but then abruptly begins to gather the papers that I spilt and scattered. I hadn't noticed until now, but I must have dropped them when I jumped with surprise at his arrival. He seems ticked off, so I begin to help him. I try to ignore the nervous, warm feeling I get when my hands brush up against his.

I glance at the top paper in the stack in my hands it reminds me painfully of a Wayne Industries building in Jump City that I'd once visited with Bruce. I look at Slade, his now hunched over, dark form, and I'm reminded about how Batman used to sit like that atop building ledges.

Slade's gets up and goes back to his desk, leaving me to pick up the rest of his papers he doesn't care for. I pick them up, walk to him and present them in an obedient manner.

"Master."

He turns and takes them from me, loftily petting my head in a silent gesture of praise. He scans them, his eye moving right to left, right to left quickly.

He ruffles them at me. "Do you know what these are layouts of, Apprentice?"

I take a stale gulp of air. "Wayne Industries."

He sits himself up ontop his desk, his impressive body curving, his obscured eye looking drowsy with his own satisfaction. "Good. And do you know what Wayne Industries' Wayne Tech produces?"

"...Weapons."

"Do you know what their latest prototype is called?"

"The thermal blaster."

"Very Good. And do you know who the owner of Wayne Industries _is_?"

"Bruce Wayne."

"Wrong," He scolds, " The correct answer was 'Batman'."

Wait, what? How does _he _know that? Of all people, why _him_? He laughs at my dumbfounded look and is so obviously toying with me. "Curb your enthusiasm. I'm sure you've got many questions... and I'll be sure to answer them, that is, when you come back with the thermal blaster; an excellent weapon, I've heard. And you're going to steal it for me."

My mouth hangs open, and then I shake my head, my black shaggy hair twisting against my face. "I... can't...steal from my father..."

I'm afraid of making the transition from criminal in training to actually doing an unlawful deed. I know, in Bruce's eyes, I'll be just like the rest of them.

His head rolls as does his eye whilst his chest heaves a heavy sigh. He jumps up from the table and strides toward me, but I'm ready for anything. I try to seem taller than I am, but I still barely reach the bottom of his armored shoulder plates. His large metal shoes make large sounds that mingle with the clinking and jerking of the overhead machinery and gears, reminding me of the ferris wheel cart from my dream earlier.

"Oh, really? Your father you say?" His voice sounds acutely inquisitive and scornful as he stops to stand in front of me, intimidatingly.

"Last I heard... you'd abandoned Batman- cut off your ties to him in order to 'get out of his shadow'. Is that not what I've provided? Is this not all what you've brought upon yourself?"

I'm so stunned by his harsh but truthful words that I don't even notice his arm raising above me, forebodingly. Before I can defend myself, he delivers a swift blow to my midsection, causing me to double over and land in his embrace.

"If you hadn't pushed Batman away, you wouldn't be in this situation, would you? Being the 'World's Greatest Detective' he could easily find you if he wished to. But he hasn't, has he now?"

I feel my hands fist, my teeth clenching tightly.

"It's because he _respects _me." I spit out.

"It's because he doesn't _need_ you like I do." he says, dipping me down as if we've just come to the end of a slow dance. My hair flops backwards and my head starts to hurt from being upside down.

I hang limply in his arms, my balance lost, totally his.

"And because of that so-called respect, you're _mine_ now... you belong to me, and tonight, you're going to steal from Batman in my name. You're going to show him that you're not his little boy-toy anymore. You're _mine_."

His hand cups my chin and jerks it fiercly backwards, bending my neck until pain-induced tears spring up inside my mask. His fingers brush against my adam's apple and his hold on me tightens slightly.

"Mine forever, and no one will _ever_ take you away from me again..."

'Again'? What does he mean by that? I was never his in the first place...

_Later_

The building is immense, tall and circular, with an open-air deck surrounding glass walls below its roof. With the stealth skills I've acquired under Slade it's a piece of cake getting inside the building. I chose the ventilation as the easiest way to get to the main laboratory, out of the many ways I could have. I kick a ceiling panel down and drop down into the room. Completely dark. Good.

Not wasting any time, my practiced fingers snap open a compartment on my belt and fish out an S-shaped explosive. Throwing it hard, one of its blades sinks into the containment chamber and begins to light up; lights blinking until they create a complete circle around an S insignia, and it explodes in a haze of shattering glass and debris, spreading upwards through the ventilation shaft and into the higher stories of the complex.

No doubt the guards heard that. I can hear their soldier-like foot steps coming nearer and nearer. Grabbing the coveted item, I start to dash for my life, and I can hear the guards getting closer. My composure unshaken, I smash a glass window and jump out of it, onto the circular observation deck where the stars are visible. I see two guards running towards me, their guns aimed and ready.

"Get him!" "Open Fire!" It's exciting, as they shoot to _kill_. With my enhanced agility, I flip away from their cascading bullets, and, using more of Slade's patented stealth tricks, leap up to the ceiling of the deck. Using my boots to dig in, I crouch upside down on the ceiling. The guards panic, aiming their guns frantically at eachother and the darkness.

"Where'd he go?" "Find him!" "Don't let him get away!"

After a long while of this type of monotony, they leave to search a different area. The coast cleared, I drop down and land on my hands and feet, going into a fluid roll before gaining my footing and running through the pitch black deck, searching for a getaway.

It's a rush doing this. When Slade first kidnapped me and told me, "You'll learn to like it." I didn't think he meant it literally.

Running, I start to hear more foot steps. A pair of them. More guards?

"Freeze!" Calls a familiar yet distant, desperate voice, and a bright, blue light beams into my eyes, momentarily blinding me. It's Cyborg's sonic canon, pointed at me from across the deck. I quickly turn away so that they can't recognize me.

The other three cut infront of me, Cyborg behind me. The blue light behind me obscures my front half from the Titans infront of me.

It's a... shock to see them. I didn't expect this.

Momentarily stunned by their sudden and unfortunate appearance, I make a break for it, sprinting at full speed. They make chase, but none of them, not even the girls _flying_, can keep up with me anymore. I'm now on a totally different level than them.

However, I didn't study the maps carefully enough. A dead end. A mid-air walkway signalling little hope for a clean escape. I don't want to turn around. I don't want them to _see_ me like this. I don't want to have to hurt them, but I will if I must.

Reaching the last blockade, I skid heavily to a halt infront of the end of the line. I turn around, shoulder's tensed and fists clenched.

Go on. See what I've become.

_Starfire's POV_

"Slade!" Cries Cyborg angrily, bounding after him. Raven rushes after him in the air as does Beast Boy; I hesitate before following.

Last time I remember seeing him... Slade was... taller than this...

The thief runs at a speed nearly double our own. The figure slides to a stopping point with one foot and he is cornered by us and a wall. It is four against one. It almost feels unfair. But if it's Slade, I must hold no remorse. I must not give any mercy. I'm so hungry to find out what happened to my friend Robin, I'm tempted to go after Slade by myself. But the team promised to function as what we are tonight; a team.

The man-or boy- decidedly turns around, and my eyes widen. He is _not_ Slade. He is shorter, thinner, with dark hair covering his forehead and the sides of his face. I do not recognize him until Cyborg shines the mounted light on his shoulder, and the figure cringes and twists, the contorted face is exposed for who and what it is.

"Robin! why are you-..." I exclaim, horrified by the uniform he wears, the trademark orange and black covering his entire chest and stomach. A sharp black S is plastered to where his heart should be.

_Traitor!_ is the first thing that comes to my mind.

Cyborg exclaims, "Woah!" And Beast Boy lets out a squeaky pitched, " No way!" Raven's mouth hangs open but she seems to remain the calmest.

He snarls, and his hands move like lightening to the belt at his skinny waist, and he pitches a device plastered with a familiar 'S' symbol violently and directly at me- and I'm so surprised that he singled me out from all of the others to attack- that I have no time to defend myself. A blinding flash of light explodes in my face, just enough to burn and singe and blind. Cyborg rushes to me and tries to pick me up from under my arms, but the fumes of the explosive make me dizzy and all I can do is hang in his arms, disarmed.

Robin never used these kinds of weapons before... Weapons that _hurt_... and _kill_...

_Robin's POV_

"Yo!" yells Cyborg in disbelief and scorn, always the scolding big brother.

"Dude, what is your _deal_?" screams Beast Boy, always the frantic little brother.

Damn it Starfire. Stop looking at me like that. So confused, so _scared_. All I can do is blind you for a moment; temporarily sparing you the pain of looking at me; my gift to you.

I gaze down at her, laying on the ground, injured by the blast. Slade's toys are more powerful than I realized. The weapons formerly supplied by Batman, all they did was stun or annoy opponents. But Slade's weapons are meant to kill.

Speak of the devil. Slade's voice, rich with pleasure but still holding a fair amount of warning, comes from inside my ear, and it almost feels like he's a part of me. It's unsettling... but it also feels good.

"-Not a word, Robin. They're not your friends anymore...-"

I noticed.

The remaining Teen Titans close around me, ready to attack, angry at me for hurting my former friend and would-be girlfriend. All I feel is swallowing anger and pity at myself and pure, black adrenaline. I just want this job to be _done_.

Raising the experimental blaster weapon on my right arm, I aim it at them, and they all gasp and flinch away. _Scared_ of me. _That's_ new.

Instead, I point it at the ground and shoot. I hear Beast Boy scream in fear as I obliterate half the walkway and their view of me, creating enough smoke and confusion to make daring my escape.

"Robin!" Starfire calls out, coughing and weezing along with her friends. I pretend I don't hear her, and dive off the ledge. The wind bites at my face as Slade's hushed voice echoes in my ear as I free-fall towards the winking lights and buildings below.

-Report, Apprentice.- He commands in a cool, collected voice.

"Mission successful, Master."

"-Exceptional, Robin.-" Suddenly very affectionate sounding.

I untangle my grappling hook at just the right time and swing up onto a building ledge. I make my way home across the shadowed building's roof tops, feeling cold and bitter, inside and out.

_Later_

I step forth from the darkness and into a spotlight as I present to my Master his stolen gift. As I do so, the spotlight fades and the monitors burst to life, my tall, dark captor stands silhouetted against them. Usually they are the blood red color of Titan's insides, but now they are just a blinding white blankness. I have to shield my eyes with my forearm.

"Excellent, Robin. I'm _pleased_. You're already proving to be the perfect Apprentice."

"Thank you, Master." I answer, soaking up his praise like a sponge. Excellent. Pleased. Perfect.

He strides toward me, a towering figure. He touches my hands gingerly, and takes his prize from my outstretched arms. He begins to play with it, taking things apart distractedly.

"I would have loved to see the Titan's faces when they saw you. You know they must hate you now... even the thought of you must make them want to vomit. A no good traitor is all they can ever see you as..." He lists, unhooking a part of the device and observing its insides, fixated.

My teeth and fists clench, his little observations getting underneath my skin until I can't take it anymore. His attention is on the thermal blaster, and my body lunges, seizing its only chance to strike, but my subconscious all the while warning me not to stir my Master.

I lunge at him, my hand grazing the device holding the nanoprobe remote button, and I soon wish I hadn't. With staggering reflexes, he twists his torso away from my crawling fingers. In a flash he's spun me around by my wrist and forced it behind my back, slowly pulling and straining. I double over, my back to him as he holds all of the power. He wordlessly listens to my ragged breaths and gasps in sadistic pleasure, adding stunning levels of pressure on my arm until all I can do is twist and groan in agony for him.

My arm is on fire, but despite that, a small part of me _likes_ being man-handled by Slade this way. He probably knows that we're both enjoying it in the sick way we do.

"I monitored your vital signs during the mission. Elevated heart rate, adrenaline, endorphins... you may not want to admit it, but at some level, you enjoyed stealing for me. It was a thrill, wasn't it...?" He coaxes me and all at once releases me, causing me to stumble and trip all over myself. I hold my arm, still trembling, and my brain scolds me for being so stupid and brash.

"You're going to keep stealing, Robin. And you're going to keep getting that thrill..."

He puts the weapon back together in a scientific way, twisting on the front piece before taking my pained arm in his hand and locking the weapon onto my bracer.

"...And soon, you'll stop dreaming and caring about that Tamaranian shrew and fully embrace your role as my Paramour."

I examine my wrist and then I look up at him; my master; my parental figure; and my inevitable lover.

FIN (to be continued)

Yes. Crappy ending. I admit it fully. I had nothing else to write and it was just like... "ehh. I'll stop it here." I just don't know how to end chapters effectively! Blergh. Well, if you read it, review it! It's just the nice, positive thing to do.

P.S. Check out my rambly RobinxRed X story "X Eyes the Robin" if you have the time. Thanks and goodnight.


	10. Tip Toe To Your Room

The Bird and his Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SlxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.

Disclaimor: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material posessions. I like my material posessions...

Please do not take or archive without permission.

Notes: This was a pretty lightening quick update. This is also the first chapter that has dropped in word count! I think... but yes, don't expect the next chapter as swiftly as this one... the only reason this was done so quickly was because a lot of it was simply taken from chapter nine.

Wow... 10 is a lot of chapters... I'm playing with the idea of stopping at about chapter 12-14 and making a sequel... but nothing's substantial yet... I hate sequels, so I don't think I'm going to put you guys through one.

Anyway, yesss... Well a whole lot of this chapter is pure Slade origin goodness. I think Slade's origin flashback is my best work in this story so far, despite the very shocking finale of it. But more on that in the ending notes.

I love you all so much, thank you to all of my long time readers who have been so patient with mycrazinessand also the newcomers who are just jumping on... all I can say is that there is still much goodness left to come, and I adore your compliments, critiques, and rants!

_Starfire's POV_

Sharing information to the police about Robin was the most difficult thing, I think, I have ever had to do in my life. It hurt so bad because I was no longerspeaking fondly about a fellow team member or our brave,charming leader, Robin- but a different person, a thief, a criminal, a traitor.

I can still remember the look of white hot rage on his face, twisting in his black and orange clothes, ready to attack us but also looking conflicted at the same time. He looked so different. His body looked much more streamlined and skinny than it had before, if that is even possible.

We had to give the police information about what weapons he used, how he fought, and what he looked like. We tried to be as vague as possible, because deep within everyone's hearts, we still loved him and did not want him to be captured. Or perhaps, we were so angry at his betrayal that we wanted to purposely deceive the police so that we could get our hands on him first.

I like to believe we all thought the first option above, but the second still nagged at us; he was a traitor. There was no mind controle. It wasn't a double nor a robot. It was _Robin_; fully aware of the treason he was commiting, not only against us, but the very city he loved. Not to mention he stole from Batman, someone I thought Robin idolized more than anyone in the world.

Foresaking everything he'd been, giving up his fight on crime, and becoming part of that very crime that he once obsessed over the dissolution of.

Becoming one with Slade.

I cringe at the thought of that and I feel angry at Robin, Slade, my team, myself; but I haven't had very many chances to cry lately. It is a strange thing, for a Tamaranian to hold in emotion; it doesn't come easily, and holding in our feelings only makes our powers weaker; but it hasn't truly set in yet, and I haven't had many opportunities to cry about it.

But the entire team feels stagnant, lonely, and depressed. The usual fights between Beast Boy and Raven break out, turning into screaming matches until all four of us retreat to our rooms in frustration and rage at our own discombobulation.

I want to believe, I want to hope, to pray that Robin is not truly evil; I know in my heart that he is not, I know it, I know it. Slade must be doing something... anything... to make Robin change this way.

It's all just a big misunderstanding, and in a few years, we'll all be together, the five of us, and we'll all be looking back and laughing at this whole mishap with happy carelessness. Robin and I will be married, forever together whilst Slade pays for his crimes in hell.

If only we could choose an ideal world.

Crime is now through the roof, some saying it's reaching Gotham-city level madness. I refuse to believe that, but still, I fight on. Without Robin, whom always seemed to win the battles and bring glory and prosperous victory to our team, we are weak, and villains know this and are choosing to strike us at our most vulnerable.

Our alert system starts to go off every day. Then eventually, every hour. Ultimately, every few minutes...

... until Cyborg disconnects it...

_Third Person POV_

The room was large, spacious, beautifully lit and had all the accommodations Wintergreen could ever ask for and more. It had a hot tub, first rate room service, a big screen television, chanddeleirs in every room, and an indoor and out door pool... However, Wintergreen was hardly feeling up to taking advantage of Bruce Wayne's staggering generosity.

He could not get Slade out of his head, and he could not rid himself of the guilt that loomed over his old heart; nor could he stop thinking about how enraged his former friend would be when he found out the treachery he was about to commit; the crazed villain would surely swear revenge.

Many a time he'd simply think and go back into long flash backs of when he and Slade were younger, and happy. He remembered training Slade as a young man. How close they'd become in that short time. And he remembered the day Slade left for the army, and the tears he'd shed alone. He remembered Slade and Adeline's wedding and the smiles on both of their faces.

Was that smile a lie, Slade? He wondered. But all of his wondering only led to more questions.

Soon enough he returned to his room after dinner with the Thompson Twins, garbed in a white robe and feeling far better than before. He sat on the very edge of the bed, turning the TV on. Immediately a news station burst to life, displaying a prim and proper plastic faced female reporter in a red women's blazer in the usual fashion.

"-You can say that again, Jhonen!" spouts the the sunny faced, overly enthusiastic woman news caster in mid sentence. She then turns her head to a different camera, signaling a change in subject.

"And in our top news report of the day: an unamed thief broke into the Jump City Wayne Tech building late last night, _undetected_. Wayne Tech, an offshoot of Gotham City's Wayne Industries, is one of the most heavily guarded weapons manufacturers in the country and possibly the _world_. More with our on-seen reporter, Geoff Dirge, at the scene of the crime."

The screen changes to show a fellow reporter scouting the scene, on the observation deck from earlier near a shattered pane of glass wall in which the 'mysterious thief' had kicked through last night.

Wintergreen was just about to change the channel to something more interesting, but the mentioning of the name 'Wayne' caught his ear. He stayed to listen.

"That's right, Kaori," shouts the pressman as he adjusts his ear piece, an excited looking man in his mid thirties, with coke bottle glasses dressed in a trench coat. He's standing near the shattered glass wall and the pile of shards beneath, with cops surrounding him. "Just last night, a rogue slipped passed Wayne Tech security systems; a rare feat indeed. Several guards were either knocked out or incapacitated, and two actually fired on the thief;"

"Our city's resident protectors, the Teen Titans, still reeling after the the mysterious disappearance of the team's former leader Robin the Boy Wonder, encountered the thief of the observation deck where I now stand; but they were not able to apprehend the thief, and would not provide further comments except a brief description of the thief's aesthetic qualities for the police which are as follows..." He reads from a piece of paper, "... reportedly approximately 5'0" feet tall, young, with flat black hair with black and orange attire."

"The culprit is still at large."

Wintergreen couldn't believe his eyes and ears and almost immediately knew only one man residing in Jump City who would have the audacity to strike at Batman through his own civilian name and would live to tell about it.

Hardly coincidental, the phone rang immediately after this segment ended. Sighing and hating to stretch his old muscles to get up, the British codger sat up and picked up the corded phone.

"William Wintergreen," He answered the phone in his inbred courteous voice.

"5'0" tall, young with black hair. Ring any bells?" Wintergreen's heart quickens, mistaking Bruce's calm, calculating voice for Slade's. He soon notices his mistake and is put to ease- a little bit. Bruce is still not the easiest person to talk to.

"What do you want from me?" Asked Wintergreen, slightly miffed at Bruce's impulsive call of accusations.

"Answers. What's Slade planning and why?"

"I don't know. I was always in the dark about his plans; although I suppose the constant pictures of Robin on the screens of his computers shoulder have been a clue..."

"He was _that_ interested?" asked Bruce, plainly sounding disgusted.

"Yes. I suppose, from the bits of information I gathered before leaving his services, that he was looking for an heir in Robin."

"Wilson's not old enough to want an heir yet. He's barely forty and in more than good health. And when I took a sample of his blood after he was chemically tortured in Gotham, it showed no traces of any fatal diseases. There's no motive to his actions."

Wintergreen was silent. _He_ knew. He knew very well what Slade's real hidden motive was. The boy's scream late at night was still in his memories. And then the hinting image of Slade sitting over Robin's panic-stricken body, legs spread out on the bed...

Wintergreen knew _very_ well.

But would he tell Bruce? The information would definately light an even hotter fire under the man's already flaring temper.

"Perhaps he does not need a motive." I reason, losing his willpower. Losing whatever spine he may have had left.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Accuses Bruce, all too aware of the suspicious, cover-up nature of his voice.

"Nothing! I just meant..." Guilt settles in Wintergreen's stomach. He was caught. Defending Slade.

"Don't go soft, Wintergreen. He's a criminal. A killer. No matter what your feelings are for him, he needs to be stopped, and you know it. He _needs_ to be caught by the Teen Titans. Jump City deserves justice for all he's put it through." His voice is passionate and angry.

Bruce's lecture strikes a chord but is still not enough to mend Wintergreen's divided loyalty.

"Fine," Wintergreen sighed into the phone receiver, "Just tell me what to do..."

"A ferry will be waiting for you at the East side docks every other day from 5 to 7 starting tomorrow evening. Take it over to Titan's Tower, but only when you truly feel no attachment to Wilson. There, you will explain yourself; earn their trust... even lie if you have to. Tell them you're there in my name, and tell them where Wilson is hiding Robin, and any other information about Wilson that may help in their fight."

Wintergreen felt a great burden shift upon his shoulders, his hands shaking, perhaps from nervousness, perhaps from old age.

"What will you be doing through out all of this?" He questioned, indignant, and quite out of character.

The dialogue of the conversation paused for a long moment, as if the brooding man on the other line was gathering his thoughts. The voice soon returned, cold and distant sounding, even for Bruce.

"I'll be paying Wilson a _personal_ visit."

_Slade's POV_

I can't sleep. I won't. I shan't. My body _screams _for rest, aching and dying, pleading with me desperately. I haven't slept in weeks. That dream... I know I'll have that dream again if I dare drift to sleep for even a moment. Even a _second_. Because I've dreamt it so many times before, I know exactly how it begins, and always how it ends. It's always the same, down to every minor detail. Always an exact replica of when it had really happened...

When my beloved son had been cut down in front of my eyes... because of a calculated risk... a _mistake_.

I don't know if I'd be able to bare witnessing that tragedy again. It's as if something's haunting me, forcing me to relive that moment every time I look for the peace and quiet that normal humans deserve...

I roll over, my white hair falling to the pillow, instantly camouflaged. My blue eyes flicker and watch the boy, Robin, lying next to me. Usually, he is thrashing about in a nightmare... but for some reason, he is oddly at peace tonight. I envy his simple act of sleep...

I shift towards him and brush my hands through his silky black hair, taking note of his exposed, long, black eye lashes... he doesn't wear his mask to sleep anymore, which surprises me. Even so, I don't think I've ever glimpsed his eye's true color, always obscured by his dark hair.

I cradle the back of his his head for a moment, briefly inhaling his honey-like scent, my heart getting that diabetes-inducing feeling once again, and for a moment, I truly love him. But only for a moment.

Resentfully, I place his head back against the pillow with all of the gentleness I can provide. I take a long, brooding half-hour or so to stare keenly at his beautiful, resting body... and the many things that I could do to it. That I yearn_ madly_ to do.

So many things to be said... so many feelings to be confessed...so many secrets that you are foolishly unaware of... that you will always be unaware of, it is up to me. Things you'll never know. Things I'll never tell. Things that are burried deep within the shattered coldness of my makeshift deadened state of reality.

Rolling over, my back to the bird beside me, I clutch the stiff pillow and try to distract myself from my body's cries for rest, and I find myself delving back into time long passed...

Memories of the love of a boy, not with an inquisitive mind nor raven-black hair, but with an angel's voice and forced love.

_(Flash back...)_

It's a perfectly sunny day out in the African savanna; the Kenyan Wilson family estate looks positively out of place shrouded in the deep grasses and scattered, wild trees and exotic plains. Two stories tall with rustic British influences courtesy of its master, it is very out of place indeed. But the house is but a tiny little square on the horizon, for no sport would dare venture near it.

Dressed in dirty, bedraggled sun-bleached garments, I only slightly shift the gun propped up on my shoulder, to enhance my aim; so absolutely gently that none of my prey would ever think me anything less of a simple shadow perching among the grasslands.

Graceful looking gazel, brown and shining in the parching sun, now feast on the very grass that now shrouds their imminent executioner. Gentle faces glance at me with little interest nor care. I've been lying here for so long, hours upon hours, that they must very well think me a part of the scenery.

Cocking the gun and making some swift, precise adjustments, I have the largest, strongest, most beautiful stag of the herd in my sights. My finger lingers on the trigger as it does every time. It's never easy to take the shot. I pause for what seems like hours, and I soon find the mesmerizing sounds of the herd's grass chewing and the swaying of the trees and grasses start to lull me, for I am drowsy, and very well dehydrated.

Jarring myself, my two eyes narrow until I have the perfect killing shot once again. My own sweat slips down my face as I bite my lip, my finger shaking. What kind of hunter am I? The stag raises it's head to look around; perfect.

Now!

_BAM!_

The thunderous shot pours over the gentle hills and stabs at any creatures that are unfortunate enough to hear of it. Birds scream and fly away from nearby trees in a twittering panic, and the prized buck is shot dead between the eyes. His mates scatter away from his body in the other direction in a jumble, fearing a similar fate.

Letting out a heavy sigh, I stand up, stretching my bones, pleased with myself. Flexing a muscle or two in preparation, I lift up the dead body of the gazel and brace it up on my shoulders with incredible strength; until I can reach my jeep, hidden behind a cluster of swaying trees.

Stomping the grass with endurance in my heavy army boots, I finally reach the expensive jeap loaded up with equipment and dump the gazel inside.

The reporters will soon be at the house. Mustn't keep them waiting.

_Later..._

Entering the house through the front door, I go from the hot, sweat-licked feeling of the African plains to stepping into my fully airconditioned, overly furnished abode, causing the sweat to feel cold and bitter against my skin and the rough fabric of my hunting clothes. Caught in the middle of unbuttoning my shirt, something catches my ear.

I hear a sweet, beautiful voice singing along with classical piano music. It's coming from the den. Not bothering to remove my dirt-covered combat boots, I walk through the freshly scented hallway, trying to find the source of the beautiful music that I have not heard to date in my own summer home.

Reaching the room, I duck my head in; my beautiful son, Joseph, is sitting perched upon a velvet red piano seat, infront of a grand black master piano. His mother, my wife, Adeline, guides him through the motions, but it is very evident that the boy knows what he's doing and doesn't need her forced assistance.

The boy's mouth sings a song in a language that I can't understand but I recognize as just as enchanting as any in my own tongue. His fingers nimbly, hypnotizingly poke and stab at the keys of the piano, making a melody to mingle with the song coming from his lips.

Awed and not wanting to distract the boy nor for him to stop, I step into the brightly lit room and stand beside Adeline, who in turn tries to wrap her arms around me. I reject her touch and draw her hands away from me.

"I'm filthy." I warn her coldly, referring to laying outside sweating in the dirt all day. However she stubbornly takes my hand in hers, and we both fall into a trance as we watch my child play and sing the song. I'm transfixed and amazed at how talented the boy is, and I didn't even notice before now.

My hand slowly separates from my wife's at its own accord, and she makes no move to remedy that.

"What language is this? I don't recall..." I inquire in a hushed voice.

"It's a classic Welsh song." Adeline answers.

Soon the song reaches its zenith, and with stabbing fingers, my son belts out two undistinguishable last words and then slides his fingers across the white and black board dramatically. I'm thoroughly impressed.

Joe whirls around on the bench, his face excited and flushed from singing. Suddenly the proud, handsome voice that was just belting out the foreign song is now referring to me in the usual tone an adoring son should and would use.

"Papa! I did not know you were listening. Did you enjoy it?"

I detach myself from my wife and I reach down to pat his blond, curly haired head in fatherly recognition, his green eyes always looking up at me with gleaming adoration.

"I'm very proud of you, Joseph. That was _excellent_."

A sad understatement. More like breathtaking. The boy's voice had been as sweet as an angel's in heaven: But a father would never say that to his young son, now would he?

Joseph and I have never been close. Being a business man, hunter, and secret assassin, it is not easy to have any sort of platonic relationship with my son. It's not surprising that I've just now discovered his nearly enchanting talents.

My wife pats my chest briefly before pointing down at my shoes. "My goodness, Slade. Take off your boots in the house. Your interviewers will be here any minute. Wouldn't want to make a bad impression with a floor covered in mud."

Easy for you to say when you have maids and butlers working around the clock on this place to keep it at your comfortable level of insane cleanliness and orderly perfection. I'd like to see you have that attitude if you actually had to do some housework yourself, wench.

Sadly, she was correct about how little time I had to get ready for the interview and photo shoot I had schedualed. I briefly let my hand rest on my young son's shoulder and give it a slight squeeze, before tramping back into the hallway and to the master bathroom to take a shower and get ready for the usual.

_Later..._

"Fantastic, Mr. Wilson!"

The enthusiastic young man takes pictures of me with a large, mounted camera; spot lights and reflectors have been set up on my mantles and furniture, whilst Joe, Wintergreen, Adeline, several of Adeline's female friends, and several other maids and butlers stand at attention at the side of the room, carefully out of the shots.

Standing at a proud six feet and four inches, one of my legs is bent and propped against a wooden bench with one of my hands resting on my slim hip while the other holds an impressive rifle, resting on my shoulder. The shirt I wear is open, exposing more than a little of my tan chest and singes of golden hair. Flaunting my straight blond hair and beard, a battle-hardened physique, and bright blue eyes, just the sight would be enough to make Adolf Hitler moist in his pants.

Gesturing to all of the decapitated critters hanging on my walls while supplying them knowledgeable captions to put under the pictures that will undoubtedly be covering all over the pages of their respected magazine or inquirer, I'm secretly bored to death of this monotony. Every session is the same, every other week. Hunting has lost some of its pleasure because of my fame.

Soon enough though, I'm able to dismiss them back to where ever they came from; as usual, they grovel and thank me profusely for 'the opportunity to meet me' and leave in an unprofessional, stumbling hurry. Many ask for autographs but few do I ever indulge.

Almost immediately Adeline's female guests start to shuffle and swarm around me, poking and prodding with hurried, nervous questions while they all chatter and giggle to eachother in delight at my sheer existence. Many of their eyes wander, making me nervous, and subconsciously, I button my shirt back up...

It makes me sick, but I endure about another hour or so of listening to my wife and her snobby friends prattle on about me, asking questions about my job and the battles I've been in, about the trophies and animal corpses all over the walls. Adeline must love having a husband that all of her social ladder climbing twittish friends adore. She jumps at the chance to show me off like some kind trophy she's won. It's not everyday these women get to meet a war legend and now a world famous hunter.

But, secretly, very few know... that I am more than just Slade Wilson. That I've assumed the guise of a world-class renowned assassin that never misses. Such is the price I pay for my thrill and excitement. Where hunting and killing animals has lost its flavour, hunting and killing humans has become my favorite pass-time. If putting up the facade of famous hunter Slade Wilson keeps my dirty secrets caged and locked up... then I can endure anything that my wife or my 'career' throws at me. Anything for those dirty, filthy secrets...

And even fewer... none... know _another_ secret that I hold... one that I will never admit... a secret only one other person will ever know...

_Later..._

_Tip toe to your room..._

_A star light in the gloom..._

_I only dream of you..._

_And you never knew..._

_There's no where left to hide..._

_And no one to confide..._

_The truth burns deep inside..._

_And will never die._

_Sing for absolution._

"Ssshh... make sure not to let mother hear us."

I emphasize the 'sshhh' by putting my finger to my lips as my other hand ruffles his pajamas. I can barely see in the unholy room as I'm supposed to be putting my son to bed. To sleep. To send him to a land where he is free to dream to his heart's content, like little boys all over the world should be doing right now.

_Supposed_ to. _Should_ be.

Instead, I feel myself start to idly play with the plastic buttons on his pajamas, part of me stalling what was inklingly intended in the first place.

His voice sounds meek and nervous. I don't blame him. We've rarely been so close, and he must be confused as hell having his, until now, emotionally distant father sitting practically ontop of him. Only some unmerciful god knows for what reasons.

"Papa?"

"Joseph. Give me a goodnight kiss."

It's highly unorthodox of me to ask him of such a thing, since until now, I have rarely shown him that sort of physical affection, or affection in any form, ever.

Until now.

I brace myself on his pillow and then lean down. His eyes are closed, probably mimicking what he's seen in movies, or probably shut tight with fear. Either or works.

Bent over him, face to face and after a long, frightening delay, I finally place my all-consuming lips against his smaller ones, never daring to go further than gently massaging his lips with my own. I get carried away, and begin to fiddle with the buttons of his pajamas once again. He sighs drowsily against my mouth, shocking me for a moment out of my self-induced haze.

My eyes widen, my pupils narrow, and I pull away from him sharply, gasping and cupping the mouth that had just kissed my own son. Shock and fear cause a droplet of sweat to frantically slip down the side of my face, my blue eyes now dull and quivering in the darkness with fear at my own disgustingly vile intent.

The choir boy leans up on his elbows, staring at me pleadingly, so confused as to why his father tore away and stopped making him feel good. So misled, so misguided, so doomed.

My son means a lot to me.

And I think he knows it.

But not more than he's going to know before the night is through.

-FIN-(to be continued)

Yes... I can't believe I wrote that. I was shocked all the way through typing like, "Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap!" Don't know whether I went too far or not far enough, but I like taking risks with this story. I have a feeling that if I held back, this story wouldn't be nearly as popular as it is.Whether you liked it or hated it, compliment and flame as you please, and I'll listen whole heartedly. And no, what Slade did is definately not a good thing. (although it's hard not to feel a little bit sorry for the guy, his home life sucks!)

Hints of a Slade and Batman encounter. Score!


	11. Screaming Bloody Murder

The Bird and his Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SlxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.

Disclaimor: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material posessions. I like my material posessions... Also, I forgot to put it in the last chapter, but the lyrics in the last segment of chapter ten are property of Muse, from their song "Sing for Absolution".

Please do not take or archive without permission.

Notes: Holy shit this took a month to update... I feel very bad about that... Are you guys even still reading? -poke- Well if it helps, this chapter's two times as long as the average chapter!...Hope you don't fall asleep in the middle. This chapter is EXTREMELY plot heavy... switching POVs every which way, fighting, action... not my cup of tea. It was a real struggle to write any plausible dialogue or first person reactions, on account of how dramatic everything that happens in this chapter _should_ be. Don't know if it is; here's hoping it's dramatic, but not too dramatic.

The next chapter, I will be replying to reviews.

Batgirl's point of view emerges. I feel like I made her a real brat. I know she's not really that way in the comics, but... heh, I don't really know what I'm writing anymore. You may be surprised who I made her love interest. I don't think she'll show up after this unless I give her a cameo...

I thought it was a little vague, but Robin's POV in the beginning is of he and Batman taking the oath in the Batcave.

Warning- Semi-graphic scene of torture, sadism, and implied character death near the end. You hath been warned.

_Robin's POV_

"...And swear that we two will fight together against crime and corruption and never to swerve from the path of righteousness."

It is quite a frightening figure, a full-grown six foot man in bat-like cape and cowel standing before you in a dimly candle-lit cave. All alone. Like a sacred, ancient ceremony, the bats that share the man's dwellings flutter around their master at attention, almost looking as if they feel its their obligation to stand watch. He takes his gloved right hand and places it on his muscled chest, on his heart, finishing his oath. Likewise, I stamp my hand to my chest with the usual enthusiasm and determined seriousness of a nine year old boy.

"I _swear_ it!"

Involving our free hands, as impossibly tender as the creepily dressed man can be, he takes mine within his, holding our hearts and our solemn oath between us.

If I'd known that I'd betray that oath, would I have sworn to it in the first place...?

And I know that Bruce must know it was me; the one who stole from him, his company. He must be aware of what's going on. He wouldn't be the world's greatest detective if he didn't. I don't know whether or not he cares to save me; perhaps he thinks, knows already, that I'm beyond saving.

Slade's words; they'd hurt more than anything. They all hate me. Bruce, the others; they all must get sick at the very thought of me; the bad seed. The black sheep. My name is soiled, and even if I were to find a way to redeem myself, would this ever be forgotten in the long run?

How can I ever be more to Bruce than the child who had bit the hand that fed...?

Not only that, but another thing Slade had said; about how everything has been my fault up until now. It's true. I know it is. If I hadn't been so damn proud. Checked up with Bruce, kept in contact, kept closer, like a real father and son would; I wouldn't be in this situation right now. Bruce would have already swooped in to save the day, like he was always able to do in the past every other time a villain felt like ransoming me.

Always bailing me out of trouble.

Well, not this time. Never again.

Bruce... I hadn't even said goodbye to you before I left the manor that night. I haven't spoken with you since then. I almost wish I could; if it were only happier circumstances, of course.

I'm not new to commiting crimes, and I'm certainly not new to the exhilerating rush doing something unlawful provides. As Red X, I'd pilfered more than one type of stolen technology for my would-be partner in crime-ironically-now my real partner in crime, Slade.

But, now, it is slightly different. No, I am not justifying the mistake I made in Red X at all by this, not in the least; but those crimes, in the past, had been a twisted, horrible attempt to simply sabatoge Slade. It had been all for the team and for justice, no matter how flawed that sounds. Now it's different. I'm commiting crimes in his name. In his _honor_. It's all been bad, but now the principles are taken away, and all that's left is the desire for the adrenaline. No more good hero excuses for me to hide under like an umbrella.

I can still see their faces; Starfire flabbergasted at my appearance, at my colors and insignia; Beast Boy, right out disgusted. Cyborg, saddened, confused, hurt. Raven; well, let's just say her hood could not hide her look of contempt.

I don't know what to feel in regards to them anymore. I know that harboring my former friendship with them will only cause uneeded pain; I don't want them to bring me down to their levels of feeling, of pity. I've got to be defensive; got to hate them as much as they hate me now. I can't be helpless; meekly on the receiving end of their indignation; no matter how justifiable.

Days ago, I'd lunged at him in anger, my Master, in a last, feeble attempt to scrounge for any honor in myself I had left. Somewhere deep in my mind, I still had a little will left to fight him; and the more he pushed me with his painful words, the more it surfaced until I finally worked up the courage to muster an insignificant final defiance- but it had gone bad in an instant, as I secretly knew it would.

But his reflexes; so fast, always like lightening, always knowing exactly what I'm going to do. I was surprised at his cunning, his lank, large frame curving confidently away from my reach. His hands twisting and tangling with my own, and in an instant, locking my arms back skillfully in a strategic position; sparingly applying just enough pressure to make me able to hear my own bones creak in my ears.

Making me kneel for him, body shaking in agony at his perfect punishment. I hope that I was groaning from the pain, and not from the masochistic pleasure I think I gathered from it...

And briefly, from months ago, I can still feel the erotic touch of his lips and tongue between my legs... his throat...making me scream and writhe; but faster than it had even come, it had gone. I think he may have been disappointed in me for that.

That why I think he hasn't given me another one of his 'rewards' in a while. I ache for just his touch, his acceptance. I was sure that stealing for him and hurting the team would have been enough to warrant another night with him. Or, did he not give me another because I'd jumped at him in anger afterwards? Or perhaps he is just disatisfied with me altogether.

I... sort of wish he'd give me an opportunity to earn another reward...

_Batgirl's POV_

"Ms.Gordon, please do try to be a bit more careful next time. One of those ruffians could have been armed with something _far_ more dangerous than a knife." Alfred lectures me as he always does when bandaging injuries.

I sit on top of the dining table of Wayne Manor rebelliously, my legs crossed in a bored fashion; dressed in full costume besides my right arm, which now has its sleeve rolled up and the sharp black glove removed. Alfred sits in front of me primly in a chair, with a first aid kit setting in his lap. He carefully wraps my arm within a deep white bandage, and I start to feel agitated at his methodical slowness.

I'm eager to go see Bruce and tell him the information I managed to gather from the gangsters I fought tonight.

Finally, the prim and proper butler bounds the cloth in a tight little bow. I hop up off the table, giving him a quick, thankful embrace before I disappear into the long hallways and elevator shafts that will eventually lead to me to a secret hiding place; a hiding place that few know exist and even fewer will ever privileged to enter.

Self consciously adjusting my mask and carefully straightening out my long red hair, I walk down the long, winding stone staircase of the Batcave. My yellow cape flies out behind me and my tall, knee-high boots click and clack noisily against the staircased carved out of the very stone of the cave itself. Only the occasional screech of a bat, perched in the ceilings and grooves of the walls, disrupts the serene silence.

My eyes adjust to the darkness and glance, almost bored, at the usual surroundings. Batcars everywhere, a giant penny, a dinosaur, a monsterous joker card dangling dangerously from the ceiling, a super computer, a medical table, a desk... and then him.

I spot him below and cautiously apporach. He looks eerily handsome, his black, tattered cape draped around his shoulders. He is unmasked, and his head is hung low in self depression. I can never find the courage to ask him exactly why he is so somber all of the time. Why he does what he does, night after night. I suppose I'll never know.

Bruce; The Batman; the Dark Knight Detective. My childhood idol and now, assumed partner. At first, I'd only been an auxiliary helper. Robin was his full time. But since Robin ran off to Jump City, it has been just the two of us, and Alfred, in our battle against crime.

He stands tall at the table and appears to be suiting up and getting ready for a patrol or mission of some kind. He's stocking repellents and gas canisters into the yellow pouches of his utility belt.

"You hitting the streets this late at night?" I ask curiously and cheerfully, trying to cheer him up a little. It hurts to see him so sad looking, all the time. I mean, he always looks like that... but lately, more than usual. I know why it is, too; because of Robin. I don't know all of the details, but I know for sure that our former partner is the direct cause of my master's current distress.

His head snaps up; I guess I broke his concentration on something.

"Yes." He answers, aloof. He glances at me from the edges of his eyes. "You're hurt?" He diverts the subject away from himself well.

I jump a little at his observance and, as if caught red handed, quickly pull down the sleeve to hide the wound, which Alfred had already previously bandaged. I didn't want Bruce to know that I'd been careless enough to get hurt by a simple crook; but I can't help but feel warm at my master's sentiment to my injury. Well, what I take as sentiment.

"Went after a Two-Face lead, but it was a dead end." I answer confidently, placing my hands on my curvacious leather-covered hips and flipping my hair away from my shoulder.

He gives me a colder-than-Mr.Freeze-stare for a long time. "You were supposed to be looking for Blockbuster. Two-Face was Robin's lead."

"Well, Robin's not here anymore, now is he?"

"You should have more respect for him than to take the information he so painfully gained himself."

"I'm only using what he doesn't need anymore."

"You're squandering his efforts." His voice falls deeply like stone and I can tell that the conversation is already heading in a bad direction.

I find myself growing cold at his obvious neglect. Why can't the man give me my chance? Lately, all Bruce can think about is Robin. He acts as if the kid's never been kidnapped before or something. Why do I get so nervous around this guy? If we're partners, then why to I feel like I'm always trying to fill that little kid's shoes? Why am I so afraid of him and his analytical stares?

I watch intently as he packs his belt to bursting with batarangs and offensive weapons, as if he's getting ready for the fight of his life.

"What's all that for? Where are you going with all of those weapons?" I know he likes to be prepared, but this is overboard. Even for him.

He raises his head, pausing and thinking up an answer for a long time.

"To confront an old friend." He says finally, smiling at nothing like he often does.

"Friends don't greet friends with batarangs and knock out gas." I reprimand, frowning and shaking my finger at him.

He lets out a chilling, bitter laughter. "No. I guess they don't. But friends don't shanghai your ward either, do they?"

Is this what this is all about? Robin _again_?

Batman decidedly takes the dark mustard-colored belt, effectively packed with all the gadgets he could manage, and clips it around his waste while he talks, mostly to himself.

"This '_friend_'...He's kidnapped Dick and... brainwashed him. Perhaps even blackmailed him. Somehow, he's making him do things he knows are wrong. I know that he hated Wilson... perhaps even obsessed over him. I don't understand why he'd be working with him for any other reasons. Tonight, I'm going to find out why."

I playfully smile and get in a catty, feminine boxer's stance and play-punch him on the shoulder in a cheerful way, "You can take 'em. I know you can!"

He ignores me and goes on. "The last time I fought him; it was a few years ago... And I honestly thought I was going to die. He's smart; too smart for his own good, perhaps more intelligent than I, and that makes him insane. He has something near a conscience and yet he's unafraid to kill, or to torture; making him dangerous and always in turmoil with himself. He's a master fighter and tactician; but more than that, he plays games with the mind and uses your own weaknesses to his advantage."

His voice drops to below a whisper, gripping the table in self agony.

"He already has my greatest weakness deeply within his grasp..."

I don't have to ask to know what- more like _who_; that weakness is, and I hate it. I tug at his muscled arm in needy affection and covertly embrace him against my breasts, all the while resting my head on his shoulder. I can feel him freeze up under my touch, as if it's offending him.

"_I'll_ never betray you... I mean, I'm always here for you...not like _some_one..."

He smirks, drawing away from me with a spiteful look on his face. "Cute. But highly inappropriate."

I stamp my foot in anger at his constant alienation. "It's true!" I cry out, "I care about you more than that little traitor ever could. I don't want you to get killed over him!"

"Silence- before you say something you'll seriously regret later." His voice bites at me fiercely, roughly grabbing his hooded ebony mask and pulling it sharply over his face, now fully and intimidatingly in costume. I feel my heart sink down into my knees. He just doesn't understand...

He finally takes his grappling hook in one hand and points at me with the other as he leaves. "I'm leaving. Whether I come back with Robin depends on whether Wilson has him at all and how determined he is to keep him. But when I do, you can bet that you will be reverting back to auxhilary status _immediately_."

_Third Person POV_

The Batmobile swirves through the streets of Jump City, its cold, forties styled ebony exterior looking sleek and graceful when compared to the dishevelled buildings it was amongst. Batman realized that this wasn't the pristene, urbanized Jump City that were his Robin's stomping grounds; but a stinking, horrible cesspool of petty street gangs, hobos and homeless, druggies, and the occasional innocent, down trodden family.

It reminded him of Gotham all too much.

The Dark Knight had flown in from Gotham in his personal jet and had smuggled the Batmobile with him.

It was deep night, and not a single car was on the road; not a single person on the streets, unless they happened to be _sleeping_ there. All street lights nearby had been efficiently shattered into pieces, causing the sky to look strangely littered with stars despite being deep within the confining walls of a city.

Batman drove the car with a single hand on the tight leather steering wheel, his black and grey outfit illuminated into bright colors by the car's high tech control panel and computers. The solemn hero takes an earpiece from a panel in the car and places it in his own ear, shifting it below the fabric of his hooded mask. Then he presses a few numbers in the control panel, and it appears to be an internal car phone.

Soon enough an old man's voice comes out scratchy on the car's speaker system.

"William Wintergreen speaking.." The old man yawns out, obviously awakened from sleep but too courteous and yellow-bellied to be upset about it.

"It's me." That's all that really has to be said anymore. "You're sure his base is here? This doesn't seem like a place where some renowned assassin would be hiding."

"Ah," says Wintergreen on the other line, "But these are his people now. The people that have cultivated around him."

The Batman is silent for a minute while he adjusts the ear piece.

"Listen, William. If you're as true as you say, I'm going to find Robin and if I'm lucky, bring him back to Gotham with me. But tomorrow, you _must_ get on that ferry. It's not a normal ferry, but a computer manned raft. I trust you remember the code to activate it?"

"Yes." Said an anxious sounding Wintergreen. He'd written it down the day before.

"Tomorrow," Repeated Batman, "Travel across the river and tell the Titans of Wilson's location. Tell them not to hold back; to kill him if they must."

"Sir!"

"No sympathy!" Barked Batman, taking a sharp curve and jerking the steering wheel.

"I don't expect to win. I don't even expect to live. Wilson will probably hold no qualms about killing me, but neither I him; but if I fail to take Robin, the Titans will have to do so in my place, if it's what they desire."

"I don't suppose their trust in young Robin is already broken beyond repair? How may I mend it?" Asked the old Brit.

"You can't. Alone, you can't make them. And they won't trust an outsider, especially if you tell them that you worked for Wilson. But they're smarter than we give them credit; they'll learn to trust you once they realize that the city and their friend is hanging in the balance because of it. They'll all go for the greater good."

"One more question," Continued Batman, "years ago... I saved Wilson from being chemically tortured in Gotham. I took a sample of his blood in the Batmobile..." with his right arm, Batman punched in a few commands into the computer and on a small screen showed an analyses of a blood sample, "And the results showed that Slade _can't_ be human. What _is_ he? You must know."

The man on the opposite line heaved a sigh. "Ah, but he is as human as you and I... more so, even. But he has... abilities... that make him differ from normal men."

"Tell me more. Tell me everything. It's the only way I'll be able to stop him once and for all."

"It's quite a long story, sir..."

The Batmobile decidedly screeched to a side-spinning halt at the side of the road beneath a flickering street lamp and soon the only sound was the rustling of the leaves and the snoring of the nearby homeless.

"I'm in no rush." Answered the Batman cooly.

A deep, saddened sigh came from the other end of the conversation, defeated into spilling his most sensitive secrets.

"Alright," the British gent began his tale, or epic if you will, "It all started when Slade met a young drill sergeant named Adeline Kane . . . . "

_Slade's POV_

"Master?"

I'm shocked out of my concentration as I input new information into the files of my computer by the boy's voice, strained and tired from a day's- or should I say night's- solo training session.

I'm actually pleasantly surprised that he's begun to refer to me as his master full time, as I'd requested of him long ago; and rightfully so. Is he finally giving up his pride and vying for my attention? Or perhaps simply showing the respect that he now understands that I deserve?

"I'm finished now."

"Good. Go to your quarters."

My staged rejection ushers in a half whine from behind me, thick with frustration; as I knew would come. His voice rich with hidden want for me. My hands instinctively start to thumb the arm of my chair at the sound. I twist around in the chair to face him, inspecting him up and down, and more than liking what I see. I notice at once that he's favoring one leg to stand on.

"Is something troubling you?"

His mask's eyes widen a little, and he worries the back of his head with his hand in a deliciously sheepish manner.

"I think... I think my leg wound opened up again..." I know at once what he's talking about; the wound he sustained when shot in the back of the leg in training. Yet it seems like far too much time has elapsed for this to happen again. Still, it's a possibility nonetheless.

"Come here." I order, with a brief sigh and flick of the wrist.

Like a relieved puppy released from his cage, he steps forward and sits himself in the chair utop my thighs; and I note his delectable smaller body resting upon mine as he shifts his ass against my legs to get comfortable.

In a _far_ more professional way than I would like, I take his lanky limb in hand and remove his leather metal rimmed boot, dropping it on the floor. Then I reach and pull up the black material of his form-fitting costume, up to the knee to expose his pale leg. I slightly twist it to find the wound on the other side and I listen whole heartedly to his hiss of pain.

The wound is gaping open as the boy proliferated; the blood had already begun to stain and dampen the clothes. It warrants immediate medical treatment, but for the most part, it really isn't serious. Just... something about it seems peculiar.

The thought that it looks similar to a self-inflicted wound reopening briefly enters my mind, but that of course, I tell myself, is ludicrous; surely precious, good-boy Robin would never do such a disfiguring thing to himself, would he?

Then again, he isn't such a good boy anymore. No doubt he's started thinking and behaving in far more sinister ways than he wants to admit after being shut in underground in such a moral-deteriorating environment.

Plus, if the lad was smart enough to make it look like it had been a mistake when he'd gotten shot the first time, then surely he was capable of opening up his own wound; which had, coincidentally, already begun to heal itself.

But why would he do that? For what possible reasons would the gorgeous little bird defile himself?

I almost want to call out for Wintergreen to fetch a first aid kit from one of the many facilities, but I catch myself before it leaves my lips. Perhaps the old man's influence isn't completely gone from this place after all.

I summon one of my soldier robots to fetch medical treatment supplies; It leaves to search obediently, shuffling its oddly hunched back into the shadows. I feel my hands instinctively creep around the boy's shoulders, liberated and now alone. Not that the soldier robot was a person, but it is the principle.

Of course, there is someone other than the two of us watching. But that's what makes this part so fun.

A flying rodent has snuck up into the rafters...

It returns shortly and in its hand it holds a wrinkled set of bandages that I doubt are anywhere near sterile. But one can't be picky when hiding underground. I wrap him up in the bedraggled cloth; no doubt it may do more damage than good, but it's only a temporary fix. I knot the cloth tightly and then slip his legging back down to his ankle. He adjusts his body a little afterwards, perhaps feeling very foolish, sitting in his master's arms, with no shoes on, in a single chair that can barely fit the two of us.

Desire perting itself up inside of me as it never fails to do when in my apprentice's presence, and taking the initiative; I begin to stroke and massage his shoulders. Knowing of my intent, he turns away and averts his gaze abashedly. I can't stand it when he does that. When he does not look at me. I want those eyes; even if I can't see them; to always be focused on me, and no one else. I'm not sure why, but it's become my most ferverent desire.

I pluck his chin up and force-twist his masked face to look at my black and copper colored one; still so youthful and vibrant, yet significantly dampened; darkened, and beginning to twist and malform to my whim. With my other hand, I shed my mask and bend harshly down; it's not easy for a tall man to reach a short boy. I expose my secret identity to the boy as I have many times before, my straight pale hair falling flat and matted in front of a tan face, a pointed nose, a black eye patch and a deep colored blue eye. I can almost taste the child's apprehension regarding the things we both so obviously crave from one another.

My free hand wanders from his shoulders and begins to trace a stranded lock of his black hair, coaxing him into giving up his petty denial. Nothing else has to be said; his cheeks flush like boy asking a girl to a date for the first time. He slowly, almost agonizingly so, stretches out his neck to reach me whilst tilting his head to the side to place a lingeing, unsure peck against my lips. His are impossibly soft, like they've never been touched in this way by anyone except me. And I have this aggressive, anxious, and annoyinglu _needy_ feeling to keep it that way.

I break away from him for a brief moment, and look over the boy's shoulder. No doubt, a bat has found its way inside my lair. How he did, I'm not sure, but I can sense the flutter of his capes from here. He's watching. I can feel the hair on the back of his neck prick up at the sight of me defiling his youngling.

Decidedly, I slither my tongue across my own lips, moistening them to provide a deeper, damper, fuller kiss with Robin's. I capture his delectable pouty, out jutting lower lip invitingly between my own, suckling on it flirtatiously. My apprentice expounds a throaty whimper and I can feel his eagerness; he parts his lips open for me even before I even attempt to penetrate them. His mask thins itself into a hard line as he closes his eyes whilst shyly poking my larger tongue with his own, so unsure of what he wants.

Feeling the spark of primal dominance take hold of me, I shove my tongue passed his teeth and very near to his throat, and he lets out a strangled surprised sound as if I'd just choked him. I cup the sides of his face with my hands and begin caressingly molest the inside of his mouth, forcingly tilting his head back for greater accesss. I close my single I and work his mouth roughly with my own, wanting that soft wetness for only myself. He lets out muffled groan, his breath hot against my lips.

I realize that his hands have fallen down to rest on my hips affectionately, communicating his apparant feelings as bluntly as possible without the use of words. Such an obvious breach of privacy, much less one an apprentice should dare commit against his master. I should take this as a direct act of offensive insolence.

Hnnn...His hands rest at my sides as his thumbs slip up and under my utility belt and begin to rub at my hip bones.

His act of innocent, obedient affection stifles my oppressive nature, for the moment. No doubt his teenaged boy hormones are getting the better of him; he's done well to keep them under lock and key, but I can tell that it's only a matter of time until he gives in to what he wants.

Why have I not simply had my way with this poor thing already? Lord knows he's had it coming for a long time. The more I'm around him, the more we share these simple, juvinile exchanges of affection that may or not have any meaning to either of us; and the more my experienced body yearns desperately to teach him all I've learned. Frustrated patience.Why have I denied myself the pleasure of stripping him nude and strapping him up in chains against the wall and fucking him senseless? My fantasies and fetishes could have been realized a _long_ time ago. Of course it has been my greatest wish from the very begining to simply smash him down against the bed and drink in his fear, his pain, his confused lust, and hear him beg for my mercy and forgiveness.

...But I have already done that to another boy, once before. A boy with pretty blonde hair and the most innocent of eyes... at least, when they weren't focused up on me, smeared and smudged with ugly looking lust. His pretty pink lips and angelic voice singing pretty songs to me during the day, but at night, gasping out sounds that only sinners ever speak of. Bathing in the satanic excitement and guilt when my 'dear wife' unknowingly walks by the door, complaining of my 'reading' too loud to Joey and keeping her from sleeping.

Yes. If only I were reading to Joey all those nights.

He'd been my little pleasure experiment. My disposable guinea pig.

I don't want to make the same mistake. The same mistake, over and over, spiralling into another fullcycle. Something is telling me that taking that same route I did years ago will only birth more ill results.

That is why I allow these doleful, juvenile kisses to suffice. Why I tend to his wounds that I more than often am the source of. because I want him to see only me and nothing else. I want him to want it all as much as I do. I don't want to put the fire out; but to channel it to my will, to make it serve only me.

Just smacking him around and deflowering him against his will, no matter how temptingly appealing, will not be enough to quell this hunger that bores down on me like a torrential downpour. I need something more, or I know that I will never be satisfied.

Never again. But then, he will never know this.

My thoughts lagging me, my former dominance over Robin dissipates leisurely. He's begun timidly practicing kissing on me in a way, lapping his small tongue with growing confidence around the inside of my mouth whilst his thumbs and forefingers circle and massage my hips, trying his damnedest to draw the gratuitous sounds of satisfaction from my lips. I bite the inside of my mouth as his hands move from my hips, first gliding over the steel covering my ribbed stomach, then to explore my ribs briefly. Then they slip up the cold, curving steel that covers my collar bones and shoulders, until they finally end up pawing at my broad chest, one of the few places unprotected by armor.

He hesitates again, and I lean in to kiss his lips in affirmation, trying to convey that no harm will come from his curious, dainty touching. Dishing out his boyish passion, he keeps his lips tightly pressed against mine, almost puckering them madly as he explores pinching and rubbing my nipples, using the cloth covering them for friction; he uses a hand on each side, utilizing hard, gloved thumbs and index fingers. I let out a few choice, persuading groans against his lips. He's smart- he knows what will set me off, even if he doesn't realize it himself.

What are you asking for in your subconscious, my Little Bird? This?

Silently and demandingly, I reach down and take his uninjured leg in my hand; and for a moment, I note that he is so skinny and small that my entire hand nearly encircles it. I take hold of his knee and shove his thigh inbetween my own slighly parted legs, allowing him to feel what he is doing to me; feel my hardening length, aching for only him.

He lets out a little "oh" sound that pushes me over the edge. I take him into another breathless kiss, Robin nodding and bobbing his head to go along with my movements all the while expelling little sighs of ashamed, pure content against my mouth as he subonsciously presses his knee into my crotch.

He's gone through so much progress in such a short amount of time. Manipulating him has indeed had a positive effect on both his training and my hold over him; and it is evident that he holds feelings of loyalty to me now, and perhaps even feelings of a different sort. He's very near to becoming the perfect apprentice... he just needs a little push. He's almost there.

_Robin's POV_

I'm not sure what I'm doing, but all I know is that my body wants desperately to please him; and my mind makes me want him to be proud of me. I notice my hands and where they're caressing him, and I quickly snatch them away from his chest. It was almost like I was under a spell; it felt warm and good to touch him, to touch _someone_. And hear them _like_ it. He chuckles and starts to rub my shoulder in a congratulatory kind of way, maneuvering his hand around my armor plate.

Then I realize my leg shoved between his legs and I feel embarrassment well up deep in my stomach and worrying my throat; this is just like before, in the bed, when he'd gotten me into that... position. I quickly remove my leg and try to block out the feeling of his arousal against my leg, even though maybe, I don't want to.

"Good Boy." I'm almost starting to like that, too.

He lifts me roughly from his lap by my thighs, and I ignore the fact that he cupped and pinched my ass in the process. I stand up and when I whirl around, his mask is already in place, back to his role as the monster under my bed.

His eye looks nervously up at the ceiling for a second and then back at me, as if he wants me gone ASAP. My eyes wander up at the ceiling, and I think for a moment that I see a shadowy figure up on one of the railings...But suddenly, almost as a distraction, his voice is in my ear and his cold fingers are stroking my neckline above the metal collar of my outfit.

"Go take a shower now, Apprentice."

Disobedience doesn't have a spot in my brain anymore, so I don't even think about refusing. No. Not after he just got done giving me what my body thought it wanted all this time. Maybe I won't feel half as crazy for it now, although the fiery, taut feeling between my legs isn't yet gone.

Or, a small fraction of what my body thought it wanted... perhaps I really do crave more.

My mind reasons with me that I do need a shower after training so long, though.

"Yes, Master." I agree, and I hesitantly walk down the hall towards my room and the usual place that I shower, leaving a very anxious looking Slade staring up at the ceiling, and I wonder...

_Third Person POV_

A fully equipped, determined Batman swoops through intricate ventilation systems that no doubt help keep the place the astoundingly bitter temperature it is. The base itself has tons of dead ends and state of the art security systems in every room, but Batman, dealing with weapons himself every day as both Bruce Wayne and Batman, could understand and slip pass them with mild challenge. Slade had the place well guarded. But Batman was better.

Batman, in a whirl of black cloak, drops down from the ventilation and down into the midst of the gears in a monsterous lobby. The very abode screams rage and determination, personified by the endless halls of industrial gears, scraping and cutting and jerking at eachother at all hours of the night, all the while shooting off horrid bursts of steam that would catch you by surprise every time. The place was, with one simple word, unsettling; even Batman, who is supposed to strike fear in the hearts of his superstitious foes, could admit this.

But then, he could also admit, that the cave wasn't a much better environment for a kid to grow up in...

He begins to ponder whether or not his choice of bringing Dick into his world of darkness had been a mistake. But he can't ponder this long once he begins to hear muffled but familiar voices coming down from below. He carefully stalks to the edge of metal railing making sure to keep unseen and undetectable. . . . but when he gazes upon the sight below, his heart beat quickens at the sight of his son-to-be perched atop the lap of his should-be arch nemisis. His face goes ghostly pale as he sees the duo's faces connect passionately, heads bobbing in impassioned rhythm.

The blatant act of homosexual pedophilia makes him feel sick to his deepest depths, and the fact that it is Robin, a minor and his supposed son, only digs those depths into hell even further... and by Wilson's hand, no less. In his lap. All curled up and...touching eachother...

Disgusting!

Either Robin is very disillusioned or Slade is a sicker than he ever realized.

He blocks out of his mind that it is Robin leaning up to kiss Slade, and not the other way around.

He knew Wilson was insane. But not this way. Now he knew- he knew why he'd so obsessively wanted to meet Robin when the two of them had been allies-maybe-even friends. But something like this-this treason- could never be mended in a life time of repent.

The man's mind screams for revenge and his body shakes with the need to break every bone in Slade Wilson's body.

'He must be using some kind of mind control on the kid...' The Batman thinks, and that just makes him fume with more rage at just the very thought.

_Slade's POV_

Our little peep show concluded, two pairs of eyes minus one watch the boy leave in a hurry to the shower hall. My eye rakes over his little body as it walks away and I want very much to follow him into that shower...

But then, that's what hidden cameras are for.

It feels an almost painfully long time until he's out of sight and out of ear shot for the two men that remain in the room. When he is, I get up from the chair to greet my new guest accordingly.

"You bastard!" I hear The Batman seethingly scream at me in a sudden outburst, along with the familiar flutter of a cape. I turn around to the direction of the sound; but all I can see in the darkness is the bright yellow of the crest on his chest and the pale white eye holes of his hooded mask.

"Long time no see." I drall, placing my hands behind my back in a friendly look contradicting the predetermined threat in my voice. But all his body communicates to me is outright animosity. I definately don't blame him. I just drink it all in.

"I didn't come to exchange witty repartee, Wilson. I'm arresting you." He growls, jabbing a finger at me whilst striding forward. As he does so, I find a small remote device on my wrist and in a moment, a flood of artificial spot light shines on the both of us. He stops in front of me, and I find it amusing that I'm taller than he.

I tilt my head in inquisition."Under what charges?"

"It doesn't matter. You know what you've done. And you're going to wish after tonight that you hadn't." His voice is menacing with defensive anger.

"It's not fair to just apprehend me without telling me what for..." I teasingly coax him into further rage. One wouldn't think that it would be so easy to manipulate Batman this way. It hadn't been the first time. But perhaps the Dark Knight loses his cool when his birdie is in danger?

"Oh yeah?" I can practically see his blood boiling, "Theft? Multiple charges of murder? How about child endangerment? Sexual molestation? How about statutory rape, you-!" He stops himself. A noble move. His mouth below his pointy nosed mask snarls, and I catch a glance of pearly white teeth.

"Why use mind control on Robin? What does he have to offer you? If you let him free, I promise compensation..." commands Batman with a righteous pointing finger, and for a minute I'm caught of guard at the vagueness of his words; then I quickly realize the circumstance and his grave misunderstanding of the situation at hand. He hasn't the faintest clue of Robin's switched sides nor of the Titan's lives hanging in the balance nor their lives at my disposal.

How fun.

"And I must ask," I say in a monotonously friendly voice, "Why you did not swoop in to his rescue your Boy Wonder as you normally would? You were up in the rafters the whole time, were you not? Spying on us with hungry eyes, no doubt. Perchance, even jealous ones..."

His blank white eyes grow wide with surprise and then anger at my perverse accusation-well, perverse to him.

"You--!"

"Ah, I know, I know. Were you perhaps thinking of sparing him the humiliation of you witnessing him so very willingly under my thumb? I assure you there is no mind control involved. He is soon to be apprentice now, body and soul, and he never strays from my side.

I color the truth. And I don't inform him of the device in my child's ear that _keeps_ him locked to my side. But then, what he doesn't know can't hurt him.

Batman's teeth are clenched like an intolerant dog locked behind a fence. "I don't believe you. Robin isn't a traitor. I didn't raise him that way."

I chuckle. "Perhaps he decided to go for a 'bigger fish', if you will..."

He roars with anger, grabbing me and shoving me up against a wall, much like my young apprentice once did with Sweet Lili, minus the bo staff to the neck. Instead, it has been replaced with a razor sharp batarang that gleams angry in the darkness, much like its master's clenched white teeth.

"Robin isn't like that-he isn't like you- we were not like that! I would never..."

Feeling devious, my hand reaches down to stroke the muscled man's thigh. "_I'm_ not the one who had him trouncing about Gotham in green panties and pixie boots, Bruce..."

My touching earns me an unbelievably hard punch to the face. My head twists around, shoulders clenching up from the pain-but I don't make a sound. I only laugh.

"I guess I deserved that one."

He goes for another, but I catch it in my hand. I swivel my neck to avoid the sharp batarang in his hand and begin to nuzzle his neck with my mask. It's so easy to tease him; to rile him up into a fuming rage until he can see nothing but me.

"Don't tell me you never thought about it... it was only you and him in that posh little mansion of yours, right? Plus your butler. Did you never think of laying him down... seeing that confused little look on his face as you stripped off your pants... did it never even cross your mind to part that little prism mouth for yourself? Knowing there was no one in your way to stop you... no resistence, no consequence? All for you...?" I whisper it in his ear as though I'm the very devil sitting atop his shoulder.

Bruce is frozen at my words, either from their truth or his utter disgust.

I draw away from him, his shoulders slumping. I hit my mark. It's easy to scathe danger when your opponent has so many weaknessess.

I slowly, stealthily, reach into my belt, pulling out a long, silvery knife that looks as though it has two small points on one handle. A small, electric current runs down the side of it. _(Haunted) _But it's quite large and could almost be considered dagger-sized. I clench it in my fingers, ready to strike. His eyes twitch at the gleam of the metal, but he's too late to stop the inevitable. I thrust upwards.

The peculiar electrical knife stabs unmercifully into his stomach; I can feel the sharpness of it sink into organs and skin. I never take my arm from the knife until I begin to twist and jerk the handle, in precise cutting places, disemboweling him in the worst way.

You learn things when you have to live off of executions of others.

He's silent for a long time, as if he's almost getting used to the new feeling of internal things puncturing and spewing inside his very core. The first sound I hear is of the batarang he once had at my throat clattering to the ground, a ringing cold sound amongst the scraping, clock work sounds that constantly fill the background. After a long wait, he lets out a choked hiccup sort of sound, coughing up a splotch of blood that almost evaporates in the air. I observe in delight as he doubles-no-triples over himself, spilling his maroon colored life liquid from his mouth and onto his once proud, grey uniform. I feel a smile come to my lips at the sight of my rival covered in his own grisly blood.

No more competition for me, it would seem. What a pity.

He clutches his stomach, wincing and twitching, but he never looks at me; I have to remedy that. I take his hand in mine, almost tenderly as I listen to his dying sounds, and I push him up against the wall; we've just changed positions. Just changed who held the power.

He's breathing heavily, and I like it. I remove my mask, for he is another person who has seen my true face before; years ago. He just stares, almost through me, as if he's trying his best to stay alive and not die from the pain.

My fingers graze the knife still wedged deep inside his stomach, and he winces at even the touch; I know that if I removed the knife now, he would surely die. Hell, he must be dying right now. I can already see the blood draining from his face only to be vomited from his mouth.

Blood splatters and speckles all over the steel part of my uniform as if someone were spraying me with a dying canister of red spray paint.

I take the nose part of his black mask between my thumb and index finger, and pull it back over his head to reveal the pale, strong face of Bruce Wayne, eyes fluttering in agony. I stare into him for a long moment, before leaning into him- pressing my body against his- and it feels peculiar and delicious to be grinding into a man whose body is so like myself. Rock hard muscle against muscle, mature lengths between the legs -- mine peaked, firm and aroused... his, not so much.

The friction of my body against his only causes the knife to push in further, and he screams, as I knew he would. His body is going cold as I thrust myself against him, molesting- getting semi-hard at the sounds of his heavy panting. Sadism never felt so good.

Unmasked, I pull down the black cloth covering his neck and begin to plant kisses along his sweat-slicked skin, and he yells at me incoherently in pure anger-anger at dying, anger at me touching and grinding him in a way that would otherwise make him riot like an angry dog, anger at me _winning_.

Yes, I know I have won. Robin will remain with me. There will be no more opposition... if I only cared to pull out the knife...

I take the dagger-like knife in my hands, and instead of pulling it out and ending his life, I press a button on the handle; a button that utilizes the small electrical stream of energy on the blade. All at once his eyes shoot open, his body convulses, as an electrical shock courses through his body, mussing his internal structure no doubt.

He screams once more before passing out completely- his unconscious body falls limp into my arms, but I don't want to hold him. No, that is a care only Robin deserves.

So I throw him upon the floor, as if his very touch disgusts. He falls, a stream of his own blood trailing after him, landing hard on the floor onto his back. I stride over to observe him, one hand unconsciously fingering my the erection, tight and stifled in my pants.

He's writhing on the floor, gasping for life, wanting to live- I was once this way. When my wife's bullet had broad-sided me- laying in my own pool of blood in my study- I'd wanted to live as well.

A spark of sympathy wells up and makes me feel sick to my stomach. I quickly suppress it down, down-- keep away. Then I crouch down to my knees and take his lips in a kiss; mine warm and aroused, his clammy and unwilling. My tongue shoves passed his lips, leaving him gaping, and I sample the taste of his blood and saliva like a fine wine; sampling my own work well done.

_Robin's POV_

I step out of the shower, open the door, feeling a rush of billowing steam burst behind me as it is set free and unconfined. I wrap a towel hastily around my waste and take another to dry my hair, beads of water dripping silkily down my chest, sides and back. After shaking out my black hair, I dry myself quickly and then get dressed in a clean suit of spandex kevlar and steel.

I take a moment to brush my pitch black hair out with a comb, straight and spikey looking around my face. I really do need a haircut.

Feeling refreshed, I leave the shower area, feeling good. I walk down a few hallways, faintly remembering the way, and I find Slade's bedroom. (Or, ever since I attacked Sweet Lili, _our _bedroom)

I duck my head in, half expecting him to once again be lounging naked in his bed, swirling his wine- but he isn't. It's dark and lonely looking. I visibly frown at his absence.

I'd half expected... for him to give me another reward.

I close the door and leave, shoulders slumped. I really am going crazy...

I walk down the halls, glancing occasionally into rooms he might be in- computer simulation- robotics- weight lifting- but he's not there. I decide to go to the main room and see if he's still lingering there.

I walk down the many halls... We really need to get a bicycle for this place.

Ha ha. I said _we. _That's strange.

Finally I arrive in the main lobby and walk along the obstacle course center, looking around. I walk passed the computers with my face plastered all over it, and then I spot something in the corner of the room. It's Slade. He's on his knees- he looks hurt.

"Slade!" I call, sprinting to his aid. I touch his steel plated shoulder, but as I reach closer, I see that he's not hurt; but leaning down ontop of someone.

His head whips around, shocked- he hadn't even realized I was there. He's not wearing his mask; and I realize with horror that there's blood all over his clothes. I draw my hand away from him. He's got a strange look in his eye, not to mention the blood dribbling down his chin, making him look like a steriotypical vampire.

"Ah! Robin...You're just in time." He touches my elbow and then leans down to kiss my hand. What is he up to? And who is that person laying next to him?

As if sensing my thoughts, he gets up and stands behind me, placing his large hands on my shoulders as he has many times; and I see with horror who it is laying crumbled on the floor.

Bruce. His hair is disheveled and his eyes are closed- clothes covered in blood, scorched and fringed by electric heat, and what looks like the hilt of a knife sticking up from his stomach. But I can still tell its him.

I could never forget him. Not in a million years.

My eyes ache at the sight of it, and I want to turn away- "He's dead!" I murmur; not blaming Slade, but simply agonizing myself over it.

"No," says Slade, squeezing my shoulders sympathetically and turning me back around to look at the still body, "he's very near dead, but not quite. He still breathes." He leans down to my ear and whispers, "But... he could be. He will be."

Frozen, he takes my hand in his, caressing my elbow and then gently touching the thermal blaster that is still connected carefully to my arm. He runs his fingers over it, sensually, as if it were a sexual organ, and then he takes hold of my elbow once more and aims my arm forward. My heart screams in alarm.

He wants me to kill Bruce.

"I... I can't!.." I whisper, tears coming to my eyes but getting caught in my mask, making my vision blurry. Nothing has to be explained anymore. He and I... Slade and me... we think so alike now that I know exactly what he wants, what he would like to see, his desires- and more than anything, I know that it would be his greatest triumph to see me shoot my former mentor- former father- dead.

"Yes you can...!" He whispers, cocking my arm so that the blast would fire directly into the still, dying man's chest. "Just... fire..."

I feel like I'm in a cartoon in which the devil and the angel comically sit on your shoulder and argue-

-but this time, there isn't any angel. And the devil isn't red, but black and orange.

I feel my hands begin to shake. I can't see. So many tears in my eyes. I can feel Slade press his large body up against me from behind- and his thick, eager arousal at the small of my back. And it reminds me of the time when he cornered me in the shower, the vulnerability- it over takes me now- these emotions..

"Come on... he never believed in you. He only used you... demeaned you... you're only a child to him, and that's all you'll ever be unless you show him now that you're not afraid to stand up to him..."

Slade words wouldn't make sense to someone with a clear mind, but I'm lost in thoughts- I stare at the body, leaking blood all over the floor, slowly, painfully dying, and I almost want to take him out of his misery. Strangely, I feel no hatred for Slade in doing this to Bruce- only sadness, sadness at myself, for making this all happen.

That's right. It's my fault. If I hadn't left Gotham, none of this would have ever happened...!

"Apprentice..." His voice begins to grow threatening and warning as his free hand that does not grip my elbow holds my shoulder in a vice grip, "I gave you an order... disobedience can't be tolerated!"

I know, I know! I don't want to be disobedient. I don't want you to hate me. I want you to _love_ me. I want you to care, I want to make you happy, I want to make you proud, want to satisfy-- I want your acceptence, Slade! I need it! I need you!

"Fire!"

Undecidedly, my hand jerks and convulses- and from my forearm, a bursting, magnificent radiant red light flares with unbelievable kinetic force into Bruce; the light illuminates the entire hall, as if everything were on fire. Thermal, hot warmth fills the air and embers burst up into the air and evaporate into the overhead cogs.

As the light subsides, the body flies into the air and lands with a hard thump upon the floor, far, far away on the other side of the room. I see it drop lifelessly--something breaks inside-- and I fall to the ground, cover my eyes, and I _scream._

I scream _bloody murder_.

-FIN-(to be continued)

Notes: Wow. Well I pretty much went crazy with the ending there. Gah. You guys must hate me. Please don't review saying. "omfg Batman would never be defeated by Slade!" No. In the comics, Slade defeats Batman almost every time they fight. Basically anything that was in the comics, I tend to inject into this fic, only exaggerated x10.

This chapter was terrible to write for me...So many emotions and reactions, I was half tempted to switch over to Third Person during most of it. But I guess I endured. -sigh of relief-

The next chapter should be coming relatively shortly. And damn, will it be a doozy! Lemons and flash backs and Wintergreens, oh my! See you then.

And I humbly thank you for reading and reviewing. So very much. Review replies next chapter.


	12. Azure Hue

The Bird and His Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. slight SxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.

Disclaimer: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material posessions. I like my material posessions...

Notes: Ah, and so updates get slower and slower. But hopefully I jampacked enough awesome content in here

Some crazy things happen in this chapter. The end is a terrible cliff hanger, so please don't beat me with any sticks or blunt objects.

Slade and Robin 'bonding' you could say, is probably the OOCest thing you could ever think of; but maybe, just maybe, I pulled it off. I know being comforted after killing your father by the man who.. well.. _made_ you do it is pretty crazy, but hey. Slade and Robin are pretty crazy. There's some pretty good interactions, I think, though it may not have the resolution you were thinking it would.

Ah. And Johnny Rancid makes a short cameo. I know he didn't debut until season two, (This story is a basic retelling of the end of season one, if it wasn't clear) but I couldn't help using him. There isn't a lot of human, talking villains in season one. (I could use Mumbo, but I'm saving him for later)

I feel very fortunate that you guys are reading and reviewing. Thankyou so much!

**Warning:** This chapter contains semi-graphic depictions of malexmale situations. Only for mature readers!

Excuse any spelling errors. This version has not currently been betaed.

_A Flashback_

"Joey!"

Everything's so faint. I can barely see- everything's spinning. Why's everything spinning? It feels like I just got off a roller coaster. I think I banged my head. My throat's really hot. Really wet. Something's coming out of it. Nothing's supposed to come out of it, but it is.

I touch my neck and all I feel is wetness. When I touch it, I feel like there's lava shooting through all my arms and legs. I got cut by a bad man. Why did this happen? Where's Papa? Where's Mother?

"Joseph!" Mother calls, but I'm taken in the arms of someone else- a man in a mask, but I feel his presence... even though everything's distorted, I still know exactly who it is.

"Joey." He says, and now I recognize the voice. It's Papa. I can barely see him through my eyes- they've started a very bad habit just now of rolling back into my head, you see. But he's wearing a weird mask- orange and black, and lots of shiney metal, but I know it's Papa.

He looks really cool.

My forehead starts to sweat. I've never felt this way before. It hurts to breath, and I feel like little parts of me are going numb while other parts are on _fire_. It hurts so bad. I want it to stop.

Now Papa's mask is off and I can see his face; it pushes past everything else like a ray coming down from heaven. I haven't been to Sunday school in a long time, since Papa wouldn't let me- but I still remember about heaven.

Heaven is being with Papa.

Papa's crying and saying my name over and over again. "Joey, Joey, Joey." I want to ask, "what is it?" but every time I try, the stuff oozing from my throat comes out my mouth. It tastes bad.

He tells me not to talk. I try and spit the thick red gunk out so my tongue will work. I really want Papa to kiss me right now, because I remember how good it feels. Maybe one of his kisses will make me feel better again. But he probably wouldn't want to because I have all this stuff coming out of my mouth.

He doesn't though. He only looks at me like he's scared. Mother's screaming in the background. Screaming at Papa. I don't want her to. He didn't do anything wrong. Stop screaming at Papa.

"Joey," He says again, "It'll be ok. Everything's going to be ok."

He starts smoothing out my hair, petting me, and it feels good. He only does this when we 'make love'.

I look at him. Papa's crying, and I've never seen him do that. I see his eyes and they meet mine. We just stare at eachother as though we both know what's happening.

Mothers screaming, "Take him to a hospital! What are you doing! What are you doing?" I wish she wouldn't scream. It hurts my ears. Everything hurts accept when Papa looks at me.

He mouths, "I love you." His hair looks so pretty. It's golden, like heaven. I guess mine looks like that too. But his is different.

My heart floods with a good feeling. Papa loves me. I _knew_ he did. I _knew_ it.

Ours eyes connect, and I feel good. I feel really good. I want to mouth something back, but all I get is red stuff bursting from my mouth like a science fair volcano.

I feel myself get swept into his essence, our eyes together.

_Contact._

But then it's all gone.

_Robin's POV_

My lungs go hoarse with my own scream, throat clenching up at the end of it and finally punctuating the whole thing with a pathetically defeated-sounding spluttering sob as the world begins to spin and my heart begins its own personal implosion.

Going into shock, I double over myself in an external show of emotional agony; finally crumbling like discarded trash down to the floor, wrapping my arms protectively around my waist and curling up my knees; metal knee guards cold against my chin. I've never felt so small and weak; yes, cornered, afraid, vulnerable... but never so helpless to this extent. Never.

Yet, queerly, never so _powerful_, either. Powerful enough to forsake my so-called father's life-- and then, to take it for myself. I shudder and cry and curl up and try so hard to make myself as small as possible. _I feel so small!_

I try to block everything from my mind as the tears make the cold floor where my forehead rests damp and sickening. My eyes keep fluttering back and forth of their own horrific accord. Trailing over black floor splattered with glistening blood. Then to the corpse on the far side of the room that it had all come from. Back and forth, as though I can't decide which picture is more terrifying. Embers, evidence of my ultimate betrayal, flutter around us until they dissipate into nothingness.

I feel, rather than really see, memories of late night crusades beside my mentor- close calls, saving eachother, always having eachother, the dyanmic duo- on rooftops, late at night, cold, gusty, lonely nights in Gotham. Perching amongst the gargoyles that he so seemed to try and imitate. Keeping eachother warm with our arms-length presence alone.

I scream again all through out this. Then I sob. Spasm. Shoulders heave and shudder as I cry, as they did when I was a small child, when it was normal to cry. And this reminds me.

A faint, almost dead memory pushes itself through all of the ones involving Bruce, rushing to the forefront, back to my life when I was part of the circus. When I was less than six years old, when my father had tried to teach me how to do my first hand stand. I'd fallen on my first try, and started to cry my heart out; even knowing myself that it hadn't even hurt. He'd reprimanded me for it, but none the less, he'd held me protectively in his bulky arms until I'd stopped. I still remember his faint scent of dirt and sweat and exertion. I still remember the wind blowing the flaps of the tent up.

I still remember the strength of his arms around me. I want it; right now, I need that sort of comfort again.

I hold myself with shaking fingers, shutting my eyes tightly. Memories, go away- get shoved down, down, deep into the recesses of my heart, so that I don't have to feel anything anymore. So I can become as cold and inhuman as possible- like my Master. So that I can be a stone statue. So that Slade can carve and sculpt me to his all he wants. I'm done fighting against the meticulous hands that so stubbornly yearn to mold me into something worthy.

Stupid Bruce. He _knew_ he'd die. He knew. Yet he still risked everything, himself, his life, his mission, _Gotham_-- to have a chance at saving me? It's _impossible_, and yet it happened mere minutes ago.

Had he been here the whole time, too? Watching? Then he knew that, too; he already knew I was Slade's apprentice- knew of my disgusting, perverted feelings and activities- and he _still_ did it. Even aknowledging me as a traitor, a dirty, mixed up, crazy thing, he still looked passed it, and gave his everything for me.

He loved me. Somehow, he loved me.

But, despite the overwhelming sorrow... a sort of calm, Slade-like clarity shoves the memories and fear away from my eyes. The death wasn't _all _bad. The inconvenience of his life, Bruce's life, his liability, is gone. Just another person I don't have to worry about getting hurt my Slade anymore.

Wait! Wait-no. Not hurt by Slade. Hurt by _me_. That's right. I made all of this happen. If I hadn't left Gotham... if only I'd stayed at the manor...

"My Little Wing..." I feel his gauntleted hand squeeze my shoulder, his voice like sweet honey pouring into my ears. It sounds sympathetic, to a point, but also carries that unavoidable undertone of lusty threat that is always, always in his voice, deep rooted there since who knows when. I twitch at his touch as he begins to masage my shoulder between his fingers.

Without thinking of the consequences, I slap his hand away. I don't look at him. My eyes are too clouded with blurring, maddening tears even if I wanted to.

I scramble up to my feet, and try to make them work-- they feel numb, like everything else. I stumble across the room to the corpse and thump down beside it, not thinking-- not daring to look at the face thats now twisted in a groteque sideways fashion- neck looking like it bent irregularly when it made that horrible limp _thump_ on the floor as it landed-

No. Don't think about that.

-Resting my head on the chest to try and find a heartbeat. Tear stained cheeks resting on the bat symbol embosed on his chest, which doesn't hold anymore breaths. No sound but the remaining charred, cracking, slight popping sounds of burning kevlar. I didn't _know_ the thermal blaster was powerful enough to burn through kevlar.

Then something sick inside me thinks in wonderment, _Slades toys really are amazing, aren't they?_

And I cry against Bruce's limp chest. Because I enjoyed it. Because a small part of me- no. I large part of enjoyed the killing. The power trip. I know I wouldn't be crying if it had been anyone but Bruce. I didn't expect him to be here- to see me so weak. I almost wanted to punish him for seeing me like this. Seeing me willingly with Slade.

No one was supposed to see...

"You little-" I hear hiss behind me, and before I can turn around, I receive a swift kick from Master in the rib cage, spralling me to the floor, landing a number of feet away from the body. I don't let myself scream, but silently cradle the nearly broken ribs in my side, trying to shudder the pain away. I look up at him with sorely confused, wide eyes. He doesn't have his mask on. His face looks so_ angry_. I've never seen him so fuming with rage without the mask on. The mask to hide it.

The mask makes him cool, collected. But without the mask, his true emotions show through-- almost painfully so.

His fists are balled and shaking at his sides as he approaches me. His shoulders beneath the circled collar of metal armor are tense; _seething_ with rage. It doesn't even register what I did to make him so upset. His thick arm and metal fingers lurch out, shrouded in the darkness, and snag me by the hair, ripping at the knots and yanking me up by the scalp; pulling me up into the air until only the tips of my steel toed boots limply kiss the floor.

Pulls me up to his face, up to his six and a half foot level, so close he could kiss me. I almost wish he would. Anything would be better than having to endure his wrath. I _killed_ for him. And now he's angry? At what? At hitting his hand away?

"Don't you _ever_ reject me again. Do you understand?" I can smell all of the blood on him, and it makes my stomach turn; knowing that Bruce is all over him. His remnants. I shut my eyes tightly, still emiting half sobs of despair- and the steady pulling of my hair doesn't help much, either.

His voice goes low and_ throaty_, "You are _mine_, boy. And I'll touch you however I please." He must notice my lips part and my cheeks begin to burn, because he decidedly chucks me to the ground, as though he's decided that that form of punishment hadn't been sufficient. I land hard on my rear with a thud, back arching at the pain in my tailbone at the impact, legs buckling and metal shoes scraping painfully against the cold, metal floor.

I look up at him, trying to shrink away. He sees this and reaches down again. Sends shivers down my spine when he circles a single hand around my throat, because that's just how _big_ they are. Leans down to my face again, threateningly close. Somehow, he's condescended to his knees in front of me, and I now I really don't feel safe spralled on the ground infront of him like this. His thumb pressures down on my adam's apple, and his hand goes to my hip.

Practically mashes his parted lips against mine in an exaggerated show of ownership. I want to scream and run away because he tastes coppery and salty. Shoves his tongue violently inside my mouth, eliciting a sobbing, pitiful groan from me that accidentally breaks the kiss.

"Don't resist..." He warns gently and he sounds desperate, needy, but only for that second: hand caressing my throat just enough to start up my gag mechanism. Throw back my head and splutter because of it, but he just moves in closer in that short period of weakness.

Such an invasion of personal space, faces so close, I can barely stand not turning away lest I make him angrier. His shaggy white hair is falling infront of my eyes. Feel his breath on my cheek, and the cold tears and his hot, rapid panting cause a shiver to course down my spine. I purse my lips tightly together when he flicks his tongue out to lick them. I hear myself sniffle.

"Open." He commands, in no way disguising his lusty tone of frustration. I shake my head. I know that will just make him more impatient. But I can't take the heady scent of the blood all over him. Can't take that I like it. Can't _stand_ it.

And it did. Rears back and backhands me across the face. Barely any force behind it, but it still stings: because, well, it's _Slade_. Shoulders clench up in his hands, but my head doesn't spin backwards like it usually does. Just a nice, quick, 'get a hold of yourself' slap. I don't even notice him discard his gloves in the aftermath.

Sighing a heavy grunt of frustration, I realize his hand that was once on my hip is now shoving its way between my thighs: searches a moment and finds what it likes. I whimper pitifully and my knees automatically buckle around his hand at being cupped between the legs. Close my eyes and try my hardest to keep the gasps of rapture inside caused by my Master's demoralizingly gropes and fondles; as I'm apparently his property to be toyed around with.

Perhaps I'd welcome this passionate assault if it were to ensue during a time where my mind wasn't filled with traumatizing, horrific images and melancholy memories. If my former mentor hadn't just been _killed_ by _me_ at my own master's orders. Is this why something that would normally be a reward now feels so much like a punishment?

Am I unwilling? Is _this_ rape?

Despite my brain _screaming_, my body grows so aroused I can't live with myself. It likes being abused, taken advantage of, embarrassed, and Slade knows it. Loves this kind of relationship. Love-Hate and the miscommunication inbetween it all.

Begins playing with the tent that my black pants have come to create right below my belt. I try to fight it back down, but there's no way I'd possibly have that sort of willpower. Tries a second time at kissing me. Takes me by surprise as I'm trying to force myself into composure. Shoves passed the lips this time. Slips his tongue up and down the roof of my mouth in a swift, flirty manner. Causes me to cry out into his mouth at the feel of it. My tongue struggles to dodge his. I can't stand the taste.

I fail. Shocks of inappropriate excitement migrate south when his tongue laps mine and tangles itself with it. Withdraws somewhat, tilts his head and shifts his position; then bobs back down; gently strokes the underside of my tongue with his own. Wet. Hot. _Soft_. He won't give up.

And I want so much to shy away when he untucks my pants from below my belt, yanking them roughly down and leaving them sagging around my hips. Pushes his hand inside the cramped material, and _god_, those blood encrusted hands feel so _warm_. Takes me in his hand and begins to stroke me into almost painful fullness. His other hand that was once around my throat is now braced against my back, keeping me upright. How considerate.

And my head is helplessly resting on his shoulder now, weakened into submission. My hands squeeze his shoulders tightly, grudgingly.Wet cheek slips up and down with both our movements against the sleek metal armor of his shoulders.

He pets me so deliciously, so that all I can possibly do is thrust my lower torso sharply upwards into his palm every time it blessingly rubs downwards. Arch my back instinctively every time his hand comes back down hard on the base. Makes me rock with him. Mewl like an excited animal when he squeezes.

Draws his hand away for a teasing second. Suddenly the sensations wane and my body locks up. Slade decidedly yanks down my pants as far down as they can go until they're crumbled at my knees.

Purring, "It was getting a little too cramped..."

Wrap my arms around his shoulders tightly, for support, and thrust back up into his rough, lined palm. Here him chuckle; resumes his pumping of my length with both of his hands now, steady and slow at first and then rising in speed and vigor. Swoon in his ear when he brings me to a shuddering climax I never asked for.

That heavenly, almost frightening release comes again, and that aching tautness that was begging to be released flutters about through the body like butterlies into pleasurable spasms. The hot fire that was in my groin melts into pulsating lava and rakes through me, making everything feel lax and my breath hitch at every beat.Keeps his hand affectionately between my legs now and keeps me steady as I buck and pant on his shoulder.

He's won again. The scores: Robin, zero. Slade, countless.

_Slade's POV_

He makes the most delicate sound when he comes, and his is a shuddering, quaking climax. I feel him reduced to a mere puddle in my hands as he writhes, and I hold him tightly as he does so. I can practically _taste_ the pleasure he's experiencing as I hold him still, pulsating through that little body, causing such terrible _confusion_. His breaths are delicious and labored as he no doubt searches himself for some kind of composure, some sort of control that he doesn't have anymore, and probably never will again.

I've since recovered from my temporary loss of temper. But he's got to learn once and for all that _he_ has no choice in the matter of when and if I touch him. That he's not allowed to hit hands away. At least, not _mine_.

"You poor boy," I coo, letting my satisfaction show evidently as I busy myself with rucking up his pants and tucking them back under his belt, "You must _hate_ me right now, don't you?"

He doesn't answer. I've got to fix that little problem of his.

He seems hell bent on clinging to me, anyway. And I realize that normal a boy would be seething with rage towards me right now; what with stabbing his mentor and making him kill him is definately an unforgivable thing by simple human standards. One would think. But the mind is a delicate thing and perhaps Robin's psyche is far too fragile to consider these things. To consider me an enemy, even in his own mind.

Perhaps his makeshift affections and loyalty running so deep that nothing, even the murder of his father figure, could obstruct. Yes, any normal boy would hate me, would seek revenge for his fallen care taker. But Robin is _not_ a normal boy.

I hear him sob against my shoulder and begin to weep for the man he just killed. I rub his back in comforting circles, gently thumbing his winged shoulder blades as they quiver with his breathless whimpers. I can almost _taste _the emotion.

He's indeed a broken little thing. Oh, yes, he was tamed before hand. He was tamed within the first month of just _living_ here. But only when I start breaking apart the past, the things he is still connected with, will we ever be able to start fresh.

"My Little Winglet. Your heart must _ache _so beautifully. Singing a ballad of sorrow so painfully few can understand," He shivers with crying, his little teeth clenched and hissing, "I know what it is like to lose someone; to lose someone by your own hand, no less. Sssh. Quiet down..."

"What do I do? What do I.." He laments, burrying his face against my chest, seeking comfort from the stronger, more powerful male, "I just... I can't believe I..."

"Boy," I say, picking up his chin and rubbing his moistened cheek, stating in a firm, persuasive voice, "You had no choice. He was bent on taking you away from me." I caress the back of his head, gently ruffling his delightfully shagged black hair. He's calming down bit by bit, as I attempt to soothe him. He looks into my face and I look into his, and I get the feeling that he is hanging on my every word.

Then, I'll make them count. A little white lie never hurt anybody.

"Robin... as I fought for you... Bruce said that he could never forgive you. That he could not understand what you'd become; that he did not raise you to become a homosexual; to be so disgusting. He said you were vile to him and that after this, he did not know if he would ever welcome you back into his house. He believed I'd used mind control on you."

As I knew he would, he tenses up in my arms like one does before the verge of a powerful sob. But he only shuts his eyes, shudderingly exhales and burries his face into my chest like a small child.

"But Robin..." I continue in a melancholy tone, stroking his hair down, "I... I hope you do not fault me for this... But I let him believe it so; that I had a mind control device and that I was making you do those things. I thought.. it was better for him and for you and he if he still believed you were the same naive, black and white-sighted boy he'd loved. He still thought you a hero."

What you don't know can't hurt you, eh?

He looks up at me. Tears are streaming rapidly down his face, but he looks oddly at peace at the moment. His arms on my shoulders squeeze around my neck in a genuine embrace; he sits up and leans his head to the side and bestows the softest kiss I've ever felt upon the rough stubble of my jaw and lower cheek.

"Thank you.." he whispers in my ear, his breath tickling my lobe like a birds feathers.

An almost unrecognizable flutter of something like a distant relative of... _love _gets caught in my throat as I'm hugged by my pupil; I have to swallow it down before my face has any chance to get warm or colored.

Then comes the guilt, heavy like a stone, but easily pushed away all the same.

I press him roughly to my chest by his back; not exactly an embrace, but as close to one as I'll allow. My minds still trying to understand where that blasted feeling came from. I'm sure I've felt it before.

"Kid, it's what I'm here for." I answer firmly. And as an afterthought, I brush my lips up against his cheek; not a sugary sweet peck like the one he just gave me... but just the briefest touch. He may not have even felt it.

I pull back, and I see his face looking warm with an almost childish bliss as he wipes his own tears away with the underside of his arm where there is no bracer. His cheeks are rosey like mad.

He felt it.

"Come," I drall gently, getting up and drawing him up with me by his scrawny hip at the same time, "I need a shower."

_Starfire's POV_

"Starfire! He's comin' your way!" Screams my friend and now, new leader of the Titans Cyborg, kneeling on the ground, clutching one of his sides which is spewing sparking wires. In the distance, Raven combats a giant mechanical terror that looks something like a mixed breed between a bulldog and a T-rex crafted entirely from the scrap heap. And that's just where we are- a junk yard, amidst piles of garbage and discarded, unsanitary items that have lost their usefulness to humakind. Earth's sun coats the dirty ground in heat, causing the stentch of the garbage heaps to become even more potent than usual. The mixed up monster made of welded garbage snaps angrily at Raven as she combats him by herself with her black magic. I once too wielded those powers; and watching her fight, I see just how much she must hold back in every battle to avoid completely losing control. She rips cars from the ground with only mental thought and hurls them into the monster's mouth to keep it from devouring her.

I turn around to witness a land vehicle speeding towards me, one which some humans call a 'motorcycle' or 'hog'. I barely have time to levitate around it as it accelerates in it's advancement, screeching to a hault, purposely causing a massive storm of dirt and garbage to fly up in a ferocious torrent.

Coughing and shielding my eyes from the dust, the maniac on the glowing red motorbike comes in for another charge, bursting through the cloud that blinds me. A spikey haired, grey skinned devil mans the machine, toting twin laser pistols flaring. Eyes buzzing green, I flip into the air, dipping and twisting to avoid the vehicle and the blasts. The dust cloud has cleared. In the distance, I can see Raven and an injured Cyborg struggling against the machine no doubt owned by this crazed beheemoth.

Floating in the air, I can now see the muscled man- or is it a boy?- hunched over the handle bars. Tattoos wrap around his arms which lack any pigment but a dull grey color. A muscle shirt is stetched tightly over his burly chest and a motor cycle helmet sits unstrapped ontop of unruly hair. A smug, defiant smile creases through a lined, weathered face. A no good punk.

"_Damn_ you're a hot little number!" He yells up at me, whistling like the wolf from cartoons Beast Boy enjoys watching every Saturday morning, "Howzabout I call off Wrex and I take you back to my place, sweet cheeks?"

Starbolts form in my hands, roaring, "I will make no such _deal_!"And even before I shoot the emerald energy, he's whirling away, balancing on one wheel. I do commend him for his skills on a motorvehicle, but not in his manners.

Skids to a halt when he believes he's at a safe distance. Smiles with jagged yellow teeth, engines revving, "So where's Bird-Brain, eh? Run home to Gotham when he heard _Johnny Rancid _was comin' ta town?"

Taken aback by his disrespectful mention of Robin, I don't move fast enough to dodge the volley of oncoming laser blasts as he feeds his vehicle gas and speeds forwards.

"Augh!" Bright red laser blasts careen into my shoulder and collerbone; for a minute they remind me of the thermal laser Robin once used against us. I'm propelled out of the air by the very force of it, dropping to the ground in a poof of dirt.

"ohh..." I moan, recovering enough to sit up and examine myself- burn marks all over my left shoulder. Wincing in pain, I cradle the wound- but I don't have time to spare as the maniacle rocker commences his chase again, lasers firing again in rapid succession. I get up to fly- but it doesn't work. The unbridled joy of flight is gone and all that remains is the melancholy thoughts of Robin that this enemy has unknowingly planted in my head. Starbolts do not work- I'm not filled with righteous fury. Yes, I may have plenty of fury- but none of it righteous in anyway.

Flying isn't an option; got to run. But how to outrun a land vehicle? Legs don't work- I've rarely had to run before- not in so long. Not since the Gordanians--

But those are hateful memories.

The ferocious red vehicle roars behind me, but my powers-!

Suddenly I hear a roar of a different sort, vicious, animal-like. In powerful, dusty bounds, I'm swept up by a familar green lion that speeds me to safety. I clutch the emerald colored mane in fright, not sure what's going on- then the form shifts and reverts back to the young boy whom I hold dearly in my heart.

"Ooph!" We both let out, and I land ontop of him after he transforms back to human form. I'm surprised at how scrawny he fills beneath me. He struggles to crawl out from under me, and stumbles to his feet above me. Looks down and reaches his hand down for me to take.

"You okay?" A tone of sincerity in his voice that my life has been sorely lacking...

I'm still dizzy. His face triples and spins blurry, blotting out the burning sun in the sky until they recover and focus. I rub the dirt out of my eyes. Take his gloved hand and he pulls me up to my feet-still feeling so weak. The breath knocked out of me.

"Yes... yes, I am fine..." I mumble, not looking at him, for he may see the tears in my eyes as I clutch my shoulder in pain. But I might be crying for other reasons.

"No... you're not. You're hurt. We gotta go back to the tower and treat it. Raven can't heal you. She's the only one well enough to fight that monster thing-"

"Star!" Cyborg calls, running over in great strides like a football player rushing an opponent; raises his sonic cannon arm in offense and shoots a blast of energy at Rancid, crushing into the black and red colored bike and sending its owner flying into a nearby pile of junk.

He skids to a hault infront of us, kicking up almost as much dust as the bike had. "You ok?" He asks in alarm, examining the burns.

"Please...do not fret. I am fine. My powers have merely been weakened..."

"It's not safe here for you," says Beast Boy, his voice childish and earnest but, unusually soft and clear to me, "Get on my back and I'll take you back." And before I can protest, he transforms himself into an enormous bird, flapping its wings in a bursting cloud of dust. Cyborg carefully picks me up and sets me on Beast Boy's back as though I were riding a horse.

"Don't worry. Me and Rae got your backs." He says Before I have a chance to thank his kindness, Beast Boy has lifted into the air, powerful feathered wings pumping gusts of wind until we are high above the sky scrapers. Our home sits in the distance. After a few moments, the sun doesn't seem so hot. The once pale blue sky begins to arch into a lazy azure color smeared with pink. The gentle wind is cold, but inviting on the charred burns on my shoulders. In the distance, grey clouds loom behind us, threatening an afternoon rainfall.

Beautiful. It is not as though I have never flown at this time of day; but when I fly, it is almost instant, like a jet plane. This takes time. Effort. Slow and steady; exertion.

I sigh in a mixture of bliss and exhaustion and burry my face into the fuzzy warmth of the giant falcon's neck, breathing in the scent of the feathers as gentle as a down cushion. Beast Boy in turn makes a soft cooing noise in an answer.

Beautiful and comfortable.

_Third Person POV_

A shining, vintage red car squeals into a dockside parking lot. It glistens with rain droplets as clouds and a light shower covers Jump City at midday. The colorful city looks unusually grey; and for good reason. Wintergreen could already sense that something terrible had happened; and that this feeling would only continue to escalate.

He sits within his car for a long moment, forehead resting against the red leather steering wheel with the old fashioned grooves and intricate spiral design. He sighs, blue eyes shuddering for a moment as he runs his fingers through his own beard in nervous habit. He distractedly turns on the radio, adjusting a dial until an oldies station is playing. _Fly Me To The Moon _flutters out of the crackling speakers. Trying to stall the inevitable.

Bruce hadn't called back after that night. He'd called him, voice booming, almost frantic, as though he'd been on an adrenaline rush. Wintergreen could hear the car skidding in the streets, and the inside of the Batmobile with its British accent responding to Bruce's commands. But where had he gone? He was sure that he'd have informed him of any victory.

_Fly me to the moon,_

_and let me play among the stars._

_Let me see what spring is like,_

_on Jupiter and Mars._

_In other words,_

_hold my hand;_

Wintergreen clasps his hands together and prays. The past few years with Slade had had him doubting his own faith; doubting his own judgements. But now, faith was what he needed. Faith in good people. Faith in Bruce.

But then, as he prays to whatever god he trusts, there are still doubts. Bruce was determined; indeed, Wintergreen knew that Bruce had cared for his ward very much. But Bruce was just an ordinary man. Yes, a legend; yes, a symbol. But as a corporial man, he could be destroyed. But Slade...

_In other words,_

But Slade was more than just an ordinary man. He-

_Darling, kiss me._

The old man shuts off the car abruptly, silencing the music. He retrieves a black umbrella from the backseat, shuffling out of the car; popping the umbrella open as he does so.

He wears his customary trench coat, brown, with a flaired collar. The sky is grey and damp, soggy... he starts walking across the empty parking lot towards the water. In the distance, he can swear that he hears gunshots. They're gone as fast as they came.

He looks for the supposed ferry that Master Bruce told him to find, but he sees nothing but a few boats shifting slowly in the water. He walks across the dockside, trailing his hand over the rusted metal. Titans Tower is a black sillhouete against the skyline.

Perhaps close enough to swim to...

Then something catches his eye.

In the water, a large, T-shaped barge, completely flat in appearance, unmoved by the waves that crash against it. Wintergreen dashes towards it, not even sure what he'll do once he reaches the island. Will they think him friend or foe, and if the second, how will he convince them otherwise?

Why was he even trying to make such a difference?

Maybe out of loyalty to Batman. Respect for Robin.

...And maybe.. just maybe... there's the slightest chance that with Robin gone, Slade would return to normal.

Just a thought.

_Robin's POV_

I pad softly across the bathroom floor, stripped of everything but a towel and my mask. The bathroom, or more correctly the washroom, looks as though it were carved right out of a cavern. It has rows of showers built into the grainy, blackened earth. There are racks of towels on one side of the room, and a sink that looks more like a water fountain on the other. Open military crates filled with vaccum sealed packs of tooth paste and tooth brushes, vitamins, and shampoo sit directly below the fountain, their discarded wrappings scattered across the floor.

"Pick those up. You know better."

I sigh in defeat; of course, to myself, making _sure_ that Slade doesn't hear me; bending over and picking up every scrap and walking them over to the trash receptical to be disposed of. I then duck my head into the shower, but Slade isn't even half undressed yet. He's simply adjusting the shower head.

His armor is stripped, gauntlets and metal leggings cast over into the next stall in clinking piles. The tight metal covering his stomach and shoulders has been peeled off; knee and elbow guards gone.

He almost looks _vulnerable. _Well, at least from behind, he does. He's nothing but a tall figure, tightly bound in black, almost shimmering material, capped off by his stark white hair, shaggy and unkept; falling gently on a now exposed, gently tanned neckline.

I find myself staring. The dim overhead lights make the sleek black of his uniform cast vibrant values across the muscles of his back and legs and ass. His shoulders are a nearly endless expanse, muscles and tendons shifting as he reaches slightly to adjust the overhead duct. His back curves sharply inward, the small of his back sloping down into an almost unusually thin waist with slightly exposed hip bones.

Eyes flutter nervously down to his buttocks; shaped like an athlete's. Some parts of his body remind me of a track star and others remind me of a professional body builder.

But then they flicker away anxiously to stare at the wall, which is far less interesting... but _much_ more safe.

He doesn't even turn his head to speak to me. "Are you going to come inside or not?"

I can feel the hair on the back of my neck prick up at the tone of his voice as I step inside the minute shower stall; my hand feels numb, and a small piece of me doesn't believe that it's my own hand reaching behind my back and shutting the door; shutting myself in with Slade.

The mirror of this stall is still shattered from the time I'd punched it.

"Why am _I_ here?" I ask forelornly, trying to avert my eyes as Master begins to pull down his own uniform, "I already took a shower."

Dumbest question to date.

He begins slowly peeling off the top of his suit, pulling it up over his head and tossing it over the wall. His chest's now exposed almost proudly, taught, precise adult chest muscles delicately accented by the slight ripple of his ribs below. A sinewy, descending pattern of tight stomach muscles trail down into his tight pants. Manly yet almost delicate grey hair covers choice spots; gradually getting thicker and darker the more my eyes trail southwards.

He smirks to himself like a wolf, tossing his head back slightly as he fingers the edge of his pants.

"Tell me, dear, _sweet _Robin; why_ not_? I'm in need of a shower, and I do so _love_ your company."

I feel him inch closer to me; I can feel our body heat start to mingle in the confined space, until I'm pushed up against the shower door; His hand strikes out, braced against the door, right beside my head.

"Robin..." He lulls, a look of utter perversion in his eyes, drawing his pants down- "_Don't be afraid_."

I must seem like such a prude to him. I don't know what to do but look away, even when he just told me not to- and when I do dare to blink my eyes open, to look, I see way more skin and hair of Slade than I'm yet comfortable with, and the lining of something like an athletic jock above the shucking of his own pants.

"Come now, Robin..." Pants probably around his ankles now, if I were brave enough to look, "Why don't you take off that towel for me? I'm being nice. This is your reward for being so brave."

I feel my cheeks get hot, burning painfully with the prospect. I may not have twenty some-odd years of experience like Slade, but I know what will happen if I do. I shut my trecherous eyes tightly to keep from looking down at him; but I can't stand defying him.

He withdraws for a second; my eyes are still shut tightly, because, honestly, I need to deprive my spiking hormones of _something_. Something to keep an ounce of control over myself.

But the yearning to please him is still there, hungry, savage, and it's the same part of me that wants so badly to gaze at him as a real man would be able to. But I'm not a man, and it hurts to know this; to aknowledge it.

But then, if I were a man, I wouldn't be in these kinds of situations, would I?

Bruce wouldn't be dead if I were just...

No. Don't think about it. Not right now. There's too many other things...

I'm shocked out of my depressing thoughts by a torrent of shower water, now turned on and beating down hard- my eyes open wide with my own gasp, and I see Slade- in the buff- a full frontal view. My eyes twitch from looking at his groin to his face, where he holds a knowing smile.

But I can't help like the way the water beats down on him, getting him gradually more sleek, muscles getting more defined and slickened with every drop of water and sweat. His normally shaggy grey hair is plastered around his angled face, his single eye peering at me through soggy bangs.

I make sure the water doesn't touch me, and I'm glad for it; otherwise the towel would be soaked and may fall off. Instead, I back away into the door, frightened by both the look in his eye and the mighty, unrestricted growth of his sex, taut and lengthy and-

I blush, bringing my hand to my mouth and biting my middle finger to keep from groaning out Master's name.

He gives a sarcastic pouting smile as he runs his hands through his own hair while stepping forward; and in just two steps, he's right infront of me. His manhood would be touching my belly button if I hadn't sucked in my stomach in anxiety.

"I promise I won't _bite_, Robin. Be a good boy and take off the towel."

I can tell that he's holding back far more than he wants to; what, I don't know. Anger; being nicer than he wants to be. I can tell he's frustrated; his swolen organ can testify to that. But there's something else.

Something else he's not telling me. Something that keeps him from doing everything he would _like_ to do. But what is it?

Like I said, the little perve aiming to please is still there, wagging his tail, begging, and waiting for rewards from its owner.

My hands go down to the towel, still plastering myself up against the door to avoid any sinful contact that may drive me over the edge I'm about to dive head first over. I unfasten the crude little knot I've made, dropping the formerly dry material to the wet, craggy floor.

I feel ashamed of the _already_ dirty, throbbing feeling between my thighs. At being fully naked for the first time infront of Master. My hands quickly reach down to cover myself of their own accord, cheeks going red at even the touch of my own hands.

"Robin..." He breathes out, reaching and cupping my elbow and drawing me to him further, "Get under the water."

I obey, still slightly hunched and cupping myself in a childish way, like a kid who gets kicked in the groin. But the water is comforting and warm. Not scalding, either, like it used to be; Slade had been changing the temperature to a more tolerable state.

Steam rises from the rocky floor, caressing us. The water beats down on my neck and back like a theraputic massage as Slade holds me still by the shoulders.

Then he shifts me, so that I'm up against the left side of the stall, beads of dewy water still clinging to my chest and shoulders and back. My bangs nearly cover my eyes completely, heavy with water, and so do his. But he's warm- he holds me tight, and I can almost feel our own magnetism.

"Move your hands, Robin. Let daddy see." He coos, sounding way too passionate about that daddy part. I concede, however, and take away my hands, wrapping my arms around my own waist in another form of subconscious protection. I hear him moan softly at the sight of me. My eyes now curiously search his manhood, prodigiously rising to attention, a flushing color at its own hungry warmth- partially covered in in sexy looking grown up hair. Thick as my arm and probably as long.

I bite my middle finger again to keep myself from reaching out and _touching _it.

"What a child you are..." He breathes out, leaning down sharply to kiss my neck, right below the jaw, "pretty, pretty child."

"Oh!" I squeak out, sounding like a girl getting poked in the side. The shower may be warm, but his lips are _hot_. On fire, burning every part of me they touch. He ravenously pets me with his mouth, down the neck, shoulders, and down to the sharp cleft of my collarbone. one hand that's not holding me still reaches down and around to clench my butt, catching me by surprise.

"Aah-Slade! Slah...!" I let out, squirming, uncomfortable with him cupping and rubbing that unprotected place. He continues kissing me ferverently, all the while pressing his hand between my cheeks and spreading me. My body feels like it's on fire when he touches it. As though my body is a wick and he is an uncontrollable flame.

"Robin..." He breathes against my neck, panting like a horny dog, eye searching my face, "Will you have me? Are you ready?"

I pant heavily also, not sure if I can trust any answer I can possibly give. My body is ready. My mind is ready. What's not ready?

_You're heart?_

"N...Y-yes. Yes...!" I let out, rubbing my painfully hardened self against his thigh in desperate affirmation. He exhales gently, kissing my ear lobe over and over as though he's thanking me.

I almost do not know what I'm desperate for. But if it's anything like this, then I'll welcome it ten fold.

"Take off your mask, Robin." He commands, hands slipping from my butt to cup and open my thighs suggestively, "I want to see your eyes as I take you. As I drive you so far down to the depths of passion that you won't even hope for air; but rather drown in it with me."

I feel a lick of steam tease my entrance. "I... ahh.. No...I don't know... I guess so..."

Slade showed me his true face. It's about time I let him see mine.

Maybe it's just the hormones telling me, "do it, do it, do it!"

But I still have a bad feeling.

_Slade's POV_

His cheeks are rosey- both sets. His boyhood is spurred and ready to be relieved against my leg. His little body is wet and moist, and truthfully, just the sight of him like this- wet, bedraggled, lustful- is enough to nearly make me come. But I want so much more of him.

I want _him_. And that means no more mask to hide behind for poor Robin.

He stays stock still, though, as I reach out and touch his face. Caressing that perfect face- touching the tip of the mask, black and white, with the little whips that remind me of eyelashes on the sides.

I wonder what color his eyes are? Most likely brown, considering his hair color.

_God_ I hope they're not green.

Don't let them be green...

I take the edge of one of the whisps carefully in my hand. I see his lip quiver as I begin to pull- the adhesive doing it's job.

Alright.

Like a bandaid.

One two three.

I _rip_ it off his face and toss it to the ground. It falls to the drain and gets soaked along with the discarded towel. He yelps in pain, eyes clenched tightly shut--

The first thing I notice is how long his eye lashes are. Reminds me of _him_, like so many other things.

And then they open.

_Wide._

I hold my breath and our eyes meet.

_Blue._

Deep blue.

They're blue, the most divine color I'll ever hope to see in my life. Azure, like a crystal pool of glass, rippling with emotion and fear and passion and lust all at once. The perfect face that once framed the mask is now fully complete, femininely boyish in its simplicity, but alluringly so.

His face is charming- eyes not too big, but a healthy, round shape; raven hair glistening with dew. A perfect nose, and particularly pouty lips and aroused, rose colored cheeks. His eyes shine with brilliant light, communicating everything I need to know of his feelings, of his affections- of his fears of me, of this. He's a scared, confused little boy, waiting to be taken by me. Thrown into unthinking submission whilst his true beauty is revealed.

A_ beautiful_, scared little boy.

_This_ is love. I know it. I've felt this once before.

But as strongly?

Perhaps not even.

Why am I so sure of myself all of the sudden? I have no idea. But I'm not one to second guess myself.

"Robin..." I exhale in wonder, and for once, _I'm_ the gaping fool. He smiles sheepishly, hair falling infront of those stained glass orbs. I soak the sight in as though it may slip through my fingers- staring dumbfounded at his simplistic divinity.

I take his chin in my hand. His eyes meet my one, my own, precisely, and I can't stop marvelling at their beauty.

_CONTACT._

Suddenly I feel strange. Queer. Something is jerking inside of me- inside my very core- my heart. It's angry. The love and anger mix and fight amongst themselves- this foreign anger that I've had no notion I harbored till now- it bubbles to the surface and consumes me.

"Slade?" Asks Robin, and he must have noticed I've gotten quiet. So peculiar, this feeling.

_Jealousy._

That's what it is.

Rage. Pent up. It pushes up-- up from my heart, my chest, to my throat... _pauses at the throat for a very long time_...

Then almost like a wraith, it's gone, away from my body- this childish feeling emotion that I can almost give corporial form-- it leaves me...

...And seeps into Robin.

Robin feels it too. An almost supernatural force descends upon him. The feeling is gone from my body; Robin looks up at me, scared. He feels it. I could almost see it enter him.

"Slade...? I...I can't control myself! Someone's inside--!" Robin cries, voice quivering in absolute fear. His eyes narrow in shock- his body goes rigid, as if he's about to vomit. He looks like he's about to cry- and now, the thought of him crying rips at my heart. What is happening?

He touches his forehead for a minute- and grabs his own _throat. _Takes it in his hand and squeezes it. A pressure point. Paralyzing.

"Robin!" I call in concern, grabbing his hand, but it's too late- he's already knocked himself unconscious in a split second. I catch him with ease, though, before he falls, holding him gently in my arms so as not to hurt him. He's limp as if he's dead, but I know better.

What the hell _happened_? It felt like something came out of me and went into him.

"Robin? Robin, wake up. Robin." I touch his face, slap his cheek gently, shake him lightly, but nothing happens. Try to wake him up. Why did he do that? He said he couldn't control himself..

God, Robin. What _happened_?"

I reach up and turn off the shower head. I'm just about to take him to the medical facility when I hear him moan softly. His fingers twitch oddly, eyes fluttering open in drowsiness as though he'd simply taken a nice nap. It takes him a few minutes to wake up fully, as though he's adjusting.

"Robin...!" I exclaim, sounding a little too excited. I quickly curb my enthusiasm, but remain embracing him tightly, because dammit, I can't _help_ it.

Robin hugs me tightly without a word- tightly, more intimately than he has ever before. It almost feels strange, but not entirely unwanted.

"Robin, what happened?" I ask, trying to stay calm, only having a mild stroke.

Robin smiles a very unRobin smile, teeth and all, flipping back his hair as though it were longer than it really was. Like a habit. A habit that I _know_ all too well.

But I don't dare let the crazed thoughts grace my mind until he spells it out for me.

"This isn't Robin anymore, Papa..." He smiles gently at my gradually widening eye- fearing the impossible.

He then wraps Robin's arms around my shoulders and kisses my cheek, like Robin had just hours ago; but this one is different; desperate, longing and hungry, as though he's been waiting for years upon years for the chance.

He pulls away and kisses me on the lips. I can't react, lips pursed shut, afraid of my own thoughts, my own body rigid with fright. He giggles against my cheek like a little girl- a trait I also recognize, that Robin does not do.

"Don't you recognize me?" He asks, shrugging his shoulder in an overly effeminate manner- and for a split second, I believe this may just be a cruel joke orchestrated by Robin himself. The thought is quickly gone, though, as my confidence in Robin's character and my newfound feelings of unbridled affection for the boy (who is not, apparently, gone) deflate that possibility.

But the mind won't let me accept the super natural.

He pulls away again, looking disappointed that I didn't kiss back- Pouting like a child who can't have their way. I look into Robin's eyes, and I find that they look different now... The eyes I gazed upon mere minutes ago were shining in revelence, beautiful, pure in their own color blue. These...

Well, they're tinted with _green_ now.

"I'm Joey, Papa! I've missed you!"

-FIN-(to be continued)

Soooo...

Can we say...

REALLY set up in advance?

If you're wondering about what the hell just happened... so am I. This is what happens when I write at 4:00 in the morning.

Joseph is a body snatcher. He takes over people's bodies by eye contact.

Joseph has stolen poor Robin's body.

It will ALL be explained in the next chapter. Just stay tuned and all your precious questions (may) be answered.

Read and Review, yes loves? Yell at me all you want; I'm prepared. -puts on tomato resistent rain coat-


	13. Rwy'n dy garu di part 1

The Bird and His Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. slight SxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.

Disclaimer: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material posessions. I like my material posessions...

Absurdly Long Notes: I decided to devote this entire chapter to the single story involving Slade and Joey in Robin's body- so the Starfire and Wintergreen side stories are taking a brief rest. Do you guys even read those? I thought this single story deserved its own entire chapter to be completely resolved.- Well, as resolved as I'll let it be.

Now, about Joey- or Jericho's- powers. In the comics, he had the ability to steal bodies by having an eye contact with the other person. He seeps into your body like a ghost and control everything but your voice. If he chooses, he can knock you unconscious (Or you can fall unconscious, doesn't matter) and speak with your voice- but once you wake up, he's stuck inside your body until he can make another 'contact'. This may or may not be perfectly correct, but it's how I've interpreted his abilities from 'The Judas Contract' and other various 80's-90's Teen Titans comics.

This is what Joey chose to do, when jumping from Slade's body to Robin's- he used Robin's own body to knock him unconscious and use his words. Everything else will be explained by Joey himself in the second part of this two-parter.

Yeah, I know I'm dabbling way too much into comicverse... but no one's complained yet. I promise things will go back to 'normal', whatever the hell that is for this fic.

Again I apologize for such a Joey-centric chapter. But it's something that has been building in this fic for a while, and I'd like to get this little saga over with.

Thank you everyone who reads and reviews and also for your patience. You guys keep me writing! Merry belated X-Mas. Hope you enjoy this.

_Warning:_ This chapter may not make sense unless you make sure to read the end of chapter 11. It may contain graphic implications of incest. Be warned. Be very warned.

_Curently not betaed. Edited._

_Slade's POV_

_"Every time I look in your eyes,_

_Every day I'm watching you die."_

_-SOAD_

I'm Joey, Papa! I've missed you!"

My mind goes blank for a second. It struggles to digest the words, tries it's_ hardest_. So much effort just to compute that sentence without my mind _crashing_. But it just ends up vomiting the whole thing exhaustedly back out into the ether.

Joey. Joey. Joey. It sounds so wrong to my ears. I haven't heard that name spoken out loud in so long.

I stare at his eyes for a minute- rub my own with the underside of my wrist as though I were adjusting a pair of spectacles- and take another look. Still Green. Well, not quite. The blue-green of a standard color wheel; like a swamp. Azure and Moss mixed together. Robin and Joey.

"_What_ did you say?" I ask, as though I hadn't heard him; as though I were deaf. But I heard him perfectly. It just doesn't register. Tries to catalogue, but _can't_. Too afraid.

"Joey, Papa. ..Have you forgotten me...?"

Even his voice sounds completely different than Robin's. Far more high pitched than Robin's usually sounds. This person is somehow distorting the boy's vocal cords to achieve his own unique voice.

His face looks like Robin's- but then it doesn't. It's almost changed its own appearance; the expressions, the gestures, the way he holds himself- it's all completely and utterly not Robin any longer. Sure, his physical appearance is the same... but I can tell. How would I not be able to? I've only obsessed over him for the past few years. If Robin had some sort of obscene split personality disorder, I'd know about it.

First of all, this person is far more feminine. Of course, Robin has his own moments effeminate charm as well... but this is almost overboard. Like it's on purpose. A conscious defense mechanism.

I struggle to the shore, away from the streaming river of my own lamenting thoughts. I reach out one of my hands that is not wrenched over one of his shoulders to touch his face. He doesn't move an inch; lets me touch him. In fact, looking like he's _revelling_ in the fact that I'm even doing it.

"You... you're not Robin anymore. I can tell that for sure. And now you're trying to say that you are infact my son Joey, but that's impossible. Joey died close to ten years ago. He _died_!"

I push the black bangs out of his eyes with shaking fingers and I examine them- all the while as they search over me. They're still the same thickly lashed eyes as Robin's were, but now they've mucked themselves up into a separate color that's alien to me. They're no longer the stained glass azure orbs of my Apprentice; the very ones I'd waited so long to finally see. I'd finally seduced the young boy into showing me his final secret; Relinquishing his true identity. He finally let me in. He became my true apprentice-and paramour- at that very moment.

The deep blue eyes that, for that very short moment, I genuinely thought I could grow to love.

And I want them back.

I'm eager to disprove these absurd events and regain my sanity- and my Apprentice- as quickly as I possibly can. I want another chance to see those eyes again.

"But I am, Joey, Papa. I am. Nothing's impossible when our love is so strong. I came back for _you_..."

As I listen to him ramble on and on, I stare into space; and I realize that this entire situation is just a double-edged sword. Either way, I'm going to get cut. A small part of me really does not want this to be Joey- doesn't want to even begin trying to think about how to deal with that; and another, much larger, far more angry creature inside of me, is mulling over what I'll do to this... 'thing' if it turns out to be an imposter. A fake. Not truly my Joey, but... but a_ fabrication_...

I can't stand the thought of that, either.

Acting in anger at just the notion that this 'thing' may be nothing but a ruse, my hands lash out of their own accord and grab his shoulders, pushing him away from me and pinning him against the wall. Droplets of shower water scatter like moths madly about us. Our feet scratch against the craggy floor as we struggle. He lets out a few mewls of discontent at being handled so roughly, but surprisingly, does not resist.

"Say something-" voice growing quick and apprehensive, " -... Say something only Joey would."

The boy who looks so much like Robin, but supposedly is no longer, rolls his eyes up at the ceiling in flirty self thought. He starts to curl one of Robin's strands of hair in his left finger.

It boggles my mind, seeing Robin's body acting so differently- so unlike itself. It almost makes me believe that he may genuinely be posessed. But my mind isn't ready to think about that yet- it's too busy trying to lock away the frantic thoughts, the grief and fear and resentment- what the hell I'll do if my suspicions are confirmed as true.

If Joey's _really_ back in my life.

My eyes widen as I watch the boy's right hand reach out and ghost up and down my chest with his single wet index finger. Tracing little affectionate patterns. I don't move, but instead watch as the phantom-like hand draws itself across my chest. Down to my stomach, tracing the sharp cuts of my abs as though he's worshipping them. Does it so slowly and delicately that it drives me crazy.

Feels so good.

-Can't think like that right now.

Then the hand pulls itself up, stroking my side, fingers tickling against my obtruding hip bone. Then they dance upwards, petal soft against the lines of my ribs just below my left nipple.

"You're skinnier than you used to be," he says, leaning into me and pressing his chin against my shoulder, "You've stopped hunting, obviously. And..."

He pulls away instantly, a sad look on his face... I watch with wary eyes as his hand reaches up and strokes lovingly through my soggy hair. His eyes look like they're aching terribly just at the sight of it.

"...Your _hair_. It's _grey_. And where did your eye go to?"

His hand wanders to my right cheek, and a prick of anger twinges in my chest when his fingers reach for my eye patch and begin to tug curiously, like a baby with a new play toy.

Don't look.

_I'm this way because of you._

I grab his wrist and shove it away from myself, pushing it back down to his side with more force than I mean. I cock my eyebrow in the face of a challenge, forcing a smile that I do not endorse.

"That's not good enough. Say something else."

Maybe I just like to hear this voice.

The boy borrowing Robin's face sticks his bottom lip out, brushing a hand about his own chest in more self-thought. Feeling himself. Still curling that one strand of hair with his other hand.

It's getting cold in here.

He smiles mischievously, a sly little twinkle in the eyes swirling with double color, a look that is foreign to me.

"Then what about this?" He says slowly, pushing himself away from the wall to which I have him pinned. He wraps his slim arms around my shoulders again, bending his back sharply- and _presses_ himself into me. Arching into me with startling passion.

The warmth of his body in the cold, damp shower stall brings new life to my arousal, and I can't help but let out a small groan and a slight shiver at the feel of him. Then he kisses my ear and _slips his tongue in_...

"Nnn..." I let out, closing my eye- but not daring to touch him in return. I'm almost afraid he'll fade away if I try to touch him.

Do you know how many times I've _dreamed_ of this?

He flicks his small, wet tongue gently into the cove of my ear, haulting for only a faint moment to whisper something, soft and airy; sounding like some kind of fairy that's longing to be touched by me.

"'Rwy'n dy garu di.'"

The phrase ultimately hits its mark; a sore spot in the back of my mind, my memories. That one, gentle caress of slurred foreign words; of the boy's slight, deliberate accent: is as close to a time machine as I will ever get. Those dainty words spoken to me many times, often over and over in frantic, panting groans and sighs. When I'd sweep the boy, my own blood, into disdainfully sinful closeness.

I can still see perfectly his little hand clutching at his own pillow; I can see, with grainy clarity of memorial vision, his small body bent, resting on his belly utop his covers. His head craned around, trying to see what I'm 'doing back there'. Casually pleading with me to stop, telling me of how it hurts him so. His little voice chokes when I press into him; when I thrust and grind into that smothering warmth. When I shove his head into his pillow, without really meaning to- he pleads with me _not _to stop now.

He always changed his attitude once I got going. He always did.

Before I can protest, or even decide whether or not I _want_ to protest, the boy's lips are _mashed_ up against and into mine with feverish intensity. Soft, warm, just as I'd tasted Robin mere moments before. Indeed they are the same pair of lips I kissed, but utilized so differently now that they may as well not be. They are no longer the shy, experimenting, calculating lips of my Apprentice, no, no. Instead they are skilled and experienced much like my own; sure and greedy and selfishly taking me for their own. And I allow it. It doesn't take more than a second for the kiss to erupt into something vicious, breathless and unhindered.

Our pressed bodies shove closer, our hips melting together, as both of us inhale sharply at the heated contact of sex on sex. Our faces maneuver rhythmically, hungrily licking and sucking one another in turns. As two departed lovers of many years would. His arms fly out to grasp my shoulders in a pint-sized bear-hug, naked bodies growing warm as eyes fall lazily closed. My hand rests against his waist as hips begin brushing together at a slow, controlled pace.

"Oh, _Papa!_" Supposedly-Joey-in-Robin's-skin exhales, breaking the kiss that nearly hypnotized me. The passionate ferver of his voice brings me out of my temporary daze, and I look down at him: clinging, panting: just as Robin had been but a few minutes ago. A small streak of guilt cuts itself through me as crazed thoughts swirl through my head. Afraid. I need more information. Curiosity is a damned thing that seems to have grabbed me by the throat. And now that I'm not swept up in the moment of blissful realization that I just was, I can clear my head to think; to sort this out, _whatever_ it is.

"Rob - ... _Joey_, or - ... who _ever_ you are- we've got to stop. Come with me." I demand, grabbing the kid's wrist tightly. As usual, I force down the needs my body screams to have satisified, very near slamming the shower stall door open in subconscious frustration. I rush the boy out as the steam explodes after us, his unusually girlie voice protesting and whining behind me. His feet slip on the floor momentarily, gain their footing again, sliding clumsily on the slippery floor, wet with our own drippings. These are also two traits in this- _thing_, that Robin himself would not even be able to fake; to whine so casually like this, almost condescending in its own comfort. And Robin would not slip- would not be so unthoughtful of a wet floor.

It's definitely not Robin. Robin has _fear_ of me. Respects me._ This _kid... He treats me as if he doesn't have a clue of all the horrible, malicious things I've done in the past. As if he knows an younger, gentler me..

But I'm not going to readily accept that my dead son, killed by my own faults, has taken over my Apparentice's body for who knows what reasons. No matter how much he kisses like Joey used to.

No matter how he gasps out "Papa!" in the same feminine way he once did, years ago...

I take a few towels from the rack on the side of the room and toss one on top of his head, spin him around and briskly wrap a second one around his slim waist. He gabs about nothing, another trait that I do not recognize in Robin. But then, my young, little Joey was never quite this talkative, either.

I ruffle his hair roughly with the towel until I'm sure it's dry, purposely covering his face in an attempt to shut him up to give me a moment to think. It doesn't seem real that this sort of thing could possibly happen. This is either a dream or a nightmare, or something horrid in between.

I grab the towel and whisk it away from the boy's head, tossing it to the ground and fetching a third one to wipe down his chest and back and under his arms.

"You're so rough," He teases playfully, tossing his head back to look at me with his tainted eyes, "Are you this rough with _all_ the boys?"

"Be quiet and dry off." I command in a growling tone, throwing the towel at him with brand new disdain.

He thinks of this as a game, and nothing but.But i'm not amused by it.

_Whoever he is._

The kid who stole Robin's body catches the towel but drops it pitifully to the ground at hearing my words, looking upset. He whines,"Why are you being so _mean_ to me, Papa?"

I feel ready to lash out at him in frustration, but natural composure takes over and overrides the extreme irritation of curiosity and, sadly, vulnerability that I'm feeling. The sickening feeling of not knowing, and possibly being toyed with by this child who is definitely not Robin but has chosen to kidnap his body. For what purposes, only he'll be able to tell.

Whoever said ignorance is bliss was a complete fool.

Since when was Joey such a little smart-alleck? Such a sarcastic little whelp? Since when did he act so... flirty? The boy I remember was gentle and withdrawn. Sullen and afraid and easy to take advantage of. A simple thing to manipulate a child into what you want it to be.

I've done it many times. I've practiced; Honed it to an intricate craft.

But he calls me "Papa" and that alone is enough to bring back delicious memories of tastes and sounds and visuals of the most arousing kind, and I don't even try to hide my feelings as I watch the kid towel himself off. I simply stare nonchalantly at Robin's slender, nude little body and try to comprehend how such a beautiful thing can exist. Then I see the eyes, peering up at me, blue-green colored, and those feelings get twisted into something ineffable.

I haven't let it sink in yet. The fact that it _could_ be; potentially _is_ Joey in young Robin's body has not become concrete in my mind yet. I don't let it. Because I know when I do that, I will once again feel the hard, pulsating guilt that I felt every time; every night I left Joey's bedroom. Every time I slowly closed the gateway to his bedroom shut after working my own version of 'magic' on that little body under the covers. When I'd linger in the hallway, leaning my back against the door and listen to his rapid panting, his dying moans.

I hunger for that very simple, animalistic adrenaline again. When I still had the picket fence intact. When the wife was there, the career was there, as the perfect cover up. When I could still feel the hot white desire for my own blood stabbing me through the heart as if it were a _knife_-

Living with the knowledge that 'Slade Wilson' had all along been a fraud. The military had seen to that personally.

I also make a note to remind myself that, in my forty-sum-odd years of living, I've seen stranger things than body snatching. But the fact that it is my son, who was dead, dead by my _fault_, is what makes it difficult for my excellent mind to even process. I don't want to begin to think about it, although eventually, I know I'll _have_ to.

I tie a towel tightly around my waist. I watch the boy who is either my son, apprentice, or both, rub himself down with the towel, pushing it into the space between his slender legs, and desirable feelings, along with something else, begin to grow.

Then I see his shoulders shake; his skinny body shivers, obviously from being damp and without clothes.

An old, dust-covered but genuinely paternal feeling surfaces from somewhere in my gut; something significant does not like seeing my 'son'... whether it truly is or isn't... cold and neglected.

And I think, horridly, "_I guess I don't want to make the same mistake twice."_

I walk away from the boy for a second and retrieve a vaccuum sealed package from one of the many boxes stacked at the sides of the washroom and tear open the thick, tightly packed plastic seal with minimal effort. Joey- or Robi- no, _Joey, _watches as I unfold the package's contents to reveal an adult sized black robe

He starts curling Robin's hair in his finger again, biting his lip; Again, Joey's two most notorious nervous habits. Then finally saying after a long wait, "That for me?"

"Yes. Put your arms in." I answer, walking back over to him and placing it over his shoulders. I'm sure that if it were Robin, I'd have a short, snappy reprimand waiting for him at such a useless question asked.

Perhaps I am not so eloquent right now when I get socked in the face with the frustrating news that the boy that I was about to finally make love to is no longer 'available.' And is probably off drifting bodyless somewhere unknown. Yes, I'm ready to accept it. So much evidence points to the unavoidable fact that Robin's personality is gone, and, quite frighteningly, my son Joey has taken his place in his skin and in my life.

Joey spins around and sticks Robin's skinny but mildly toned arms into the sleeves. Then wraps the torso part's fabric tightly around himself, the robe hanging well past the young boy's knees. He notices that there is no sash with which to tie the robe closed.

Unthinkingly seizing an opportunity, I take the sash from the package with one hand and encircle Joey's entire waist with the other, subsequently pulling his enticingly small, slender body backwards into mine in a sloped embrace.

I pull him closer still, placing my hands in the spot you would put them if you were attempting the Heimlich maneuver. I feel the soft mounds of his backside through the startchy material of the robe, and I feel myself growing hotter.

I slip the fabric through the loops of the robe and purposely take a long time tying the knot; in the mean time opting to grind myself slowly and nonchalantly into his backside. His robe and my towel serve as excellent restrictions; because I have no idea how far I'd go right now.

Joey groans low in his throat, momentarily slipping back into Robin's voice by accident. He begins slowly, steadily rolling his hips backwards into mine, igniting an even hotter flame in my throbbing manhood. The boy makes sure to slip back into the 'Joey' voice, _panting_...

"Papa...!" He obediently bends over the slightest bit, and my hands immediately re-clutch at his hips, driving myself in short, rhythmic thrusts into the warm ebony cloth and the vague feeling of the supple little ass enclosed within it; listen intently to the kid mewl like an animal at the rough friction I'm providing him in such a tender place.

Dust-covered but none the less excited feelings of bodily affection for my son Joey are bubbling to the surface, but seeing Robin's taut little body made ready for the taking isn't helping much either. The feelings become mixed so far that I can't discern which young boy I'm feeling lustful for.

This could certainly pose a problem.

Even as I mirthfully take advantage of this new situation, my calculating mind still wonders to itself: Is this really Joey? If so, where did Robin go? Why did this happen? What must Joey be feeling after all this time apart? Does he know that I was directly responsible for his death?

That I took a gamble with my own son's life?

I tried to tell myself long ago that Joey was nothing but a poker chip. A play thing.

That's what I tried to tell myself about Robin, too. That Robin was nothing but a tool to be used. Expendable.

_Now look at me._

Joey touches one of my hands on his hips, squeezing it gently. I momentarily cease doggedly _humping_ him for a minute to listen to what the kid has to say.

He turns around and looks me in the eyes, and it's still hard to swallow the color of them. I remember Robin's shining eyes, and I'm suddenly hit with something like remorse. I swallow it down like I always do, and make do with the swampy colored ones in front of me. His face is twisted into an arrogant smile that I don't remember my beloved Joey nor Robin ever using before.

Then he embraces me, burrying his face in my chest. I'm surprised to find his face suddenly damp with tears.

"I missed you for so long. I... I'm so happy...!"

"Joey," I say slowly, carefully, "Why... how are you here...? What is going on?"

"We don't have much time. This kid won't stay konked out forever."

Then he smiles wolfishly to himself, adjusting the robe I just gave him around Robin's lithe frame. The one that Robin is still working hard to perfect.

"Maybe we should go to your bedroom." He suggests, grinning up at me and taking my hand.

"Joey..!" I warn, louder than I meant to; not moving in the direction he wants to go. I brush my still damp hair from my face in contemplation; not even noticing that I'm now fully referring to him as 'Joey; as though there's no doubt in my mind, when here so obviously is.

We're both silent; he pouts like a child not getting his way; for that was often what he was in life, I realize. He puts his hands on his hips and sneers _arrogantly_, something I _did not know_ Joey was capable of.

"You don't like being so helpless, huh? Makes you angry?" He says it in such a questioning, condescending tone that I'm tempted to slap him across the face simply because it _looks_ like Robin is saying it. Because i am Robin's Master, and even though I know it isn't robin, it still gets under my skin.

Joey himself, perhaps, could get away with this behavior, but Robin is another story.

_I'm glad it's not Robin being so disrespectful._

"Well," continues Joey inside Robin's skin, "Now you know how it _felt_."

I stare at him, stunned by his bravado; stunned by everything thus far. He's turned the tables in such a way that my emotional side, no matter how small, is trapped; cornered. Grasping for that lingering image of Joey so much that I'm stupified to anything this... thing may try to pull.

Because he sounds like Joey.

Because he looks like Robin.

He steps closer and is up against my chest once again, annoyingly, casually stroking a finger down my face and through my beard as though I'm his property. He knows he has me wrapped around his finger. My mind struggles with itself not to grab him by his little throat and strangle him for acting so high and mighty, so posessive. So right. so in control.

Part of me thinks I deserve what comes to me.

But most of me just wants to smack some sense into this kid, whoever it is.

"If you don't do what I say, I may not feel like leaving for a while." He says, his eyes looking at the floor insubordinately, "I kind of like this body, you know. You did a good job. I can't blame you for getting a little carried away."

"_What_?" I hiss, completely thrown for a loop at the out of character things coming out of my newly resurrected son's mouth.

Is he _blackmailing_ me?

"Don't worry," Joey says, looking at me from the corner of his eyes like a nymph, all the while turning to the door, "It's only fair that I explain everything to you. And I will. As long as I get what I came for."

My shoulders shake roughly, perhaps of the chill of the bathroom, but most likely a direct result of the chilling words coming out of the child's mouth that look so much like Robin's; the ones I _want_ so badly to be Joey's.

"Joey..." I groan out, trying to get level headed, but failing. Painfully.

"Come on," he says, and opens the door for me to lead the way, "It's about _time_ I get you all the myself." His voice is filled with the impatience of an eager young child. I choke down my anger and resentment at being bullied by a child, but perhaps I don't take it as hard; because I now sincerely _wish_ for it be Joey.

No matter how much I try to deny it, I _miss_ that kid. I miss hearing that soft, sweet voice sing to me. Even though it's still Robin's vocal cords, I recognize everything about that elfish little voice.

But all of those things I _did _to him. I abused him-hurt him on occasion. Only hurt him when he wouldn't let me have my way. When he wasn't in the mood.

A few hard smacks around would _put_ him in the mood every time.

Oh, god...

No. He was my son. _My property_. I had every right. Every right.

As Robin is my property now.

I've got to be stead fast. Keep my composure and keep debilitating emotions at bay. My pride can't allow this child to manipulate me. But I've _got_ to know the _truth_.

I go out the door, into the cold hallway of my secret base- just in a towel- I shake away the cold, trying to sort through my myriad of painful, jolting thoughts-

Then the kid, dressed in my robe, walks by my side and takes my hand. I tell my mind that it's not Robin, and that keeps that warm, content feeling from seeping up into my throat like it often did- _does_, when Robin shows me affection.

I look at the warped young boy striding beside me; now locking me in a very compromising position; He treats it like a game; successfully putting me in a check, and I have no where else to move my king.

If this is what it takes to have Joey back...

Robin is looking better _every_ minute.

_Flash back_

"Slade, let me get you and Joseph in a photograph together, ok?"

We're all standing in the great hall where I usually have my photo shoots with lofty newspapers and magazines; but right now, it's simply a family affair. Adeline sits on one of the couches, camera up to her face, her curly brown hair behind it in a neat, summery ponty tail. I'm in my business clothes; a simple pair of brown dress pants and a white dress shirt with a neatly knotted crimson colored tie.

The dusky room with its walls cluttered with military awards and certificates, business achievements, and prized animal remains, is cluttered with people once again; the usual. Adeline's busy-body friends. Why she continues to allow them to lounge around our house as though it were theirs is astounding. I'm quite put off that half of them only visit this house to catch a glimpse of _me-_ and no, I'm not exaggerating. Many have come right out and told me so. Some have even devised plans to seduce me, but all have been ill-fated.

Sometimes I play with the ones who are brave enough to corner me in the hallways, pressing a hand up their neat little business jackets or blouses and very briefly feeling them up, just to satisfy them.

What can I say? I get bored.

"Oh yes!" Says one of them, particularly plump and nearly busting out of her expensive female business jacket and skirt, "I would like a copy of this for posterity!" The entire herd of females all begin roaring in agreement. The sound of their highpitched voices and screeching laughter is beginning to give me a sharp head ache. They all look the same, talk the same; same hairstyles, clothe styles, colors of make up they choose; the same smart little fashions, trying to communicate their 'sexual independence' with short skirts and frilly business attire.

They cluck like hens about this and that, and I can barely stand to listen. Some are huddled around me, trying to talk to me, find out more about it; but only when ice freezes over will I ever open up to some narrow broads.

If only they knew what the _real_ me was like.

I look across the room and see Wintergreen standing at attention in the doorway, seemingly unphased by the uproarious attitude of the room. Our eyes meet for a second, and he gives me a sympathetic look, bushy eyebrows crooked with his own discontent. He understands me. Understands my hatred of this monotony. My soul brother.

We share a common bond, Wintergreen and I. We are indebted to eachother, and somehow, we have formed an emotional link that only seems to continue to strengthen. I give him a pleading look, very obviously communicating, 'Please get me the hell out of here.'

He shakes his head woefully- and then is commanded mirthfully by Addie to go get more snacks and wine for her friends. He gives me one last look before turning around on his heels and obeying her.

Obeying only because she is my wife.

I look away from the door and instead focus my eyes on the comfortingly burning fire in the fire place, warming the room and casting a dull orange light upon everything within. A log splits and cracks open, making the ladies jump in surprised fear. Then they're back to talking like a gaggle of some kind of jabbering geese.

"Slade honey? Be a dear and go fetch some more firewood from the pile, would you?" Adeline suggests loftily, obviously feeling quite pleased with herself. A flicker of anger, but I do it anyway- grunting out a response and getting up from my place on one of the adomens infront of the fire.

Obeying only because she is my wife.

"-And find Joseph while you're at it. We need to get pictures before he goes to boarding school."

I stride through the large room- trying to maneuver around all of Adeline's cluttered lady friends- and I _swear_ that one of them pinched my ass on my way out.

------------------

I stride into the hallway, putting on a black winter coat. I spot Wintergreen through the doorway of the kitchen.

"Do you know where Joey is?" I ask, and he jumps in surprise at my voice, twisting around. I realize just how much older than me he seems to be getting. Not aging well.

"I haven't seen him well today," Wintergreen answers, "The last time I saw him, he was going through the back door. I'm not sure what for."

I sigh, not quite thrilled with the fact that my kid may be roaming the African plains by himself.

"It gets rather cold outside in the later hours, doesn't it?" Wintergreen says to himself in a worried voice, raising an eyebrow, as if he's urging me to go looking.

But I'm already out the door, slamming it behind me. The night is not so cold, but cool and harboring a chilling wind. The tall grass sways back and forth while perkily chirping crickets and wild animal sounds can be heard far off in the distance. The stars aren't yet completely out yet, but the few that are are quite bright, and the moon is but a thin sliver of light cutting through the night sky.

Then I look down and see Joseph sitting on the porch as though he's a little gift from God, perched with his knees up to his chest and his arms wrapped about them. He's wearing a sharp looking new school uniform with a neat white dress shirt below a navy blue sports jacket along with short shorts that thoroughly expose his thighs. I nearly stepped on him.

He whirls around at the sound of the backdoor slamming, fear on his eyes. Then he realizes its me, and a small look of pleasure steadily settles in his deep green eyes. The wind blows our hair, and we just stare at eachother for a long time, not sure what to say.

There is still quite an amount of... akwardness between us. I still don't understand what possessed me to do what I did to him a few days ago.

_"Papa?"_

_"Joseph. Give me a goodnight kiss"_

I remember what happened that night, and my heart begins to flownder for air. Prior to that, I had been blissfully unaware that I felt attracted to males - or children - or my own kinsmen - before. It's a little much to grasp my mind around, even if I _do_ use 90 percent of the damned thing.

Why do I feel like this? These emotions are so intense, my heart feels like it's on fire all the time when I'm near the damnable boy. When I see him, I feel warm; Attracted as if he were an opposing magnetic force. When I hear that little voice, riddled with a hindering Welsh/British accent, I get excited; excited about my son, which would seem strange to any other father who has a close relationship with their own; but when I do see him, those pouting lips, those unruly yellow waves of hair, I savor every moment of it. He is indeed my son, no doubt.

I must be confused; stressed. I must just be frustrated after getting discharged from the army. Angry at what they did to me. Doctors have diagnosed me with a mild case of bipolarity; brief stints between rage and depression.

That must be it. the doctors say I'm unstable, and I'm bored; That _must_ be it. It's nothing more but an absurd, perverted attraction.

_I don't love my own son. I can't._

"Can I... sit down?" The wind seems intent on hungrilly tugging at my hair and jacket.

"Yes, Papa. Please."

He scoots his backside over, and for a moment I admire how cute they look in a starch, clinging material of his new school uniform. I step down and sit on the step beside him, unconsciously shoving my hands into my pockets. A little nervous. Just a bit.

I don't know my son very well. I have always blamed it on my busy lifestyle, but to be truthful, I have never made a true effort at it. I hypothesize that that is part of the reason I'm able to feel an attraction towards him. Of course, the fatherly feelings are there- but those feelings, I realize, are what, to be frank, turn me on the most.

There's an infinite period of silence, and we don't talk to eachother. We never really have. Not alone, and not seriously. How could we? He is just a child. Yes, quite a smart child... He is my son, after all. But still, so young. _Undeveloped_..

-Don't think like that right now.

"So," I say, pushing my blowing hair out of my face and turning to look at him, "You're leaving for boarding school tomorrow..."

I hadn't known he was going until today. Adeline had set it all up, and at first, I was angry- upset that she did not include me in the decision. Then I realized that with Joey gone, it would give me a chance to kill these ugly feelings I have for me. These vile, disgusting, _amazing_ feelings.

"Yes," He says, his very angelic face growing more upset-looking, "I don't want to go... but Mother says it's best for me to be with other kids my own age. And my private school here doesn't support the grade I'm going into..."

"But you'll be in London, won't you? You seemed to enjoy it there last time we visited your Grandparents. You said it was your favorite place to travel to."

"It's not my favorite place anymore." says Joey, sounding lethargic yet sharp in his correction, "I have a _new_ one."

"Really?" I ask, now curious. If I know anything about my son, which is very little, it's that he loved London and Buckinghamshire, and England in general.

"Yes, it's a _much_ better place." Says Joey, his small index finger idly rubs the rough wood of the steps in slow circles...

" .. My favorite place.. is where ever my Papa is."

His voice shakes and he bites his lip with a small, morose smile. His curly blonde hair making intricate patterns in the wind. His cheeks are rosey with cold, and his exposed legs must be_ freezing_...

I feel my heart sputter for a minute at the scene. I nearly choke over myself at his words.

My mind also fills with terror. He couldn't _possibly_ feel the same way about me, could he? That would be sick; wrong on my part. This affection is _not_ supposed to be returned. What I did the other night to him, I know, was not out of love, but out of frustration-lust- and perhaps just simple thrill. Sick and manipulative of _me_. He's naive and easy to take advantage of.

So _easy_...

A poor, innocent cherub lured into the hungry jaws of a lusting beast, only wanting to be loved.

Feelings like these between father and son can never _work_.

"Papa?" He touches my shoulder, and the intimacy of the contact makes me shiver. I must have been staring forelornly into space, because my son peers at me from behind curly bangs with concern. "Are you unhappy? Did I say something wrong?"

"N-no! _No_, Joey. I'm fine. You're_ fine_. Everything is..." I flinch and cover my mouth, no doubt exposing my own nervousness to the boy. How will he feel seeing his powerful, prideful father is such a bumbling mess?

We're both quiet for a minute, I covering my mouth to keep any other uneloquent words from coming out, while Joey looks downwards at his expensive wooden clogs.

"'...Rwy'n dy garu di..'" His gentle voice says at last, and I barely hear him whisper it in the whirring of the wind. I don't understand a word. He might as well be speaking alien-speak. I give him the appropriate look of questioning.

"-Oh yes. I forgot you don't know that language... So... you didn't understand that song I was singing for you and Mother on the piano the other day?"

I smirk, adjusting the red tie around my neck, "Not a word of it."

He smiles, too, and_ laughs_. I like the sound, and I realize I hear far too little of it.

Another breeze picks up, cold and bitter and almost painful just to experience. I see Joey shiver, wrapping his arms around himself in a futile effort for warmth. No good.

"Take my coat." I suggest firmly, unubuttoning it and then wrapping the large thing about his slender shoulders as I listen to him protest.

Fatherly instinct.

"... It smells like you." His cheeks turn pink again, and he looks away as he burries himself further into the coat.

"So... what does Rwy'n dy-... what does that mean?"

"It means, 'I love you' in Welsh."

I must look stunned by his words. Probably because I can't understand how in the world he can possibly feel this way. At such a young age, and all of the time at Sunday school he spends...

He turns to me, biting his lip, his eyes squinting with strain, "I love you, Papa. I _love_ you... and.. "He starts to sniffle, small tears leaking from his squeezing shut eyes.

"Oh, Joey. Joey. Don't _cry_." I rub his back in circles, the back covered with my thick black coat. I try to stop him because I know when he starts, it's difficult for him to stop. I know that much.

"I... I want you to do it again. What you did that night. I wanted it-..It felt so _good_... I just... I was too afraid to ask, and I was- I was so afraid because it hurt at first..."

He rubs his eyes viciously, whimpering.

No. These feelings are _not_ normal.. But who am I to question them?

"Well," I start, looking away and trying to place my words correctly, "I have to get some fire wood... and if your mother goes to sleep early enough... We can, you know... we can maybe sleep by the fire together in the den tonight; before you leave tomorrow..."

His face switches from woe to hope, his curly mop of hair bouncing with excitement. "Really?"

I nod knowingly, already beginning to anticipate the night ahead. This is the part in the movies where the lovers embrace and kiss, their troubles and differences reconciled after two long tremultuous hours of viewing. But we don't. I'm beginning to realize that my type of loving does not allow that.

The wind picks up and reminds me of why I was sent out here in the first place.

"You go inside, Joey. Your mother wants you to meet some of her new friends before you leave for your new school tomorrow..."

His thin eyebrows skew themselves in disgust, "But her friends always put me on their laps and pinch my cheeks and make me sing for them. And mother doesn't care."

"You can sit on _my_ lap then. I won't let them."

He looks at me, blushing, pursing his lips tightly. Our eyes lock, and I see his quiver with a sort of excitement that a normal boy would achieve when his father promises to take him to the park, or the zoo.

Then he stands up, taking off the coat and placing it back on my shoulders, and I feel his small hand linger on my shoulder for what seems like an eternity. Then he retreats into the comforting warmth of the Wilson manor, leaving me to contemplate just what in hell I could possibly be thinking.

_Later_

"Ohh, Joey... J-...unh.."

The fire in the pit has long died out, leaving only smoldering embers in its wake.

But another fire is _roaring_ as we speak.

His thick eye lashes flutter like butterflies. One of his hands is locked with my own, whilst the other covers his own mouth to keep himself from _screaming_. No doubt it would arouse Adeline and Wintergreen from their respective sleeps. I made it very clear that that was _not_ allowed to happen tonight.

Cute. He's being extra careful.

Gently rolling my hips; I take his wrist up to my mouth and kiss his palm over and over again. He makes a stifled sound, and the firewood cracks loudly in his stead. The covers I laid out earlier for us rustle and jostle with our movements; the boy's head twists left and right, trying to repress his own urgent need.

My hips buck up and down like a mechanical bull underneath the covers. I keep riding that small, soft body, exerting all of my weight against his internal muscles that struggle with the size and girth of my sex. Greedily grinding into the tight, throbbing pocket of fleshed warmth that he provides me with.

Joey's face is lost in pleasure, his eyelids butterflying in rapture. His pouting lips are sensually parted open, gasping out shorter and louder the faster and harder I go.

He spreads his legs a little wider for me, and I take the opportunity to bear down even further; Slipping into heavenly, velvety heat, _squeezing me until_...

"-Mmm!" I gasp it out doggedly; the boy obviously has more restraint of his voice than_ I _do. Joey then squeezes my hand with all the strength that tiny hand can manage in affirmation for me to keep going.

My free hand reaches down and cups one of his buttock's cheeks, squeezing and shifting the barely a handfull of flesh I can grasp in my enormous hand. Joey squeeks, but stays perfectly still, pressing his face sideways into the one pillow we have. I can see his adam's apple bobbing with his laborous breathing patterns; a tiny droplet of perspiration slipping down his petal soft cheek; lingering at his jaw and then slipping down his neck and finally coming to disappear at the crook of his gently sloping collarbone.

I feel myself start to growl low in my throat, purring at the sensations the poor boy is inflicting upon me just by flexing his rectal muscles. My manhood feels like it's on _fire_, scortching into the boy with every drop of my abomidable passion.

Several more well-placed, jerking thrusts in and out of the poor lad and come; staggeringly, beautifully come. I'm_ there_, white and hot and _dazzling_. Liquid warmth explodes and Joey's eyes open wide at once at the feel of it, his mouth gaping open for a moment. Our bodies each go rigid, both pairs of eyes widening slowly; bated breaths held tightly in our throats.

Then I roll away from him, laying on my back and accidently coming loose from the covers. I push my sticky bangs out of my face, my broad, naked chest rising up and down breathlessly. Then I roll over onto my stomach, wearing no shirt and yanking my novelty boxers back up into their proper place.

Batman themed. Little yellow bats patterned on the clingy black material.

I reach across the floor and retrieve a small alarm clock. I'd taken it from my own bedroom, and set it to wake me up after five hours of sleeping on the floor with Joey so that I can get Joey back to his room and slip into my own bed before Adeline has a chance to waken.

I glance at Joey; dishevelled and sullied by my hand, breathing in short gasps.

I cover my mouth to make sure I don't get sick.

What did I _do_? What am I doing? _Why_?

I feel an upheeval in my stomach, causing me to feel like vomiting; My mouth feels like it's coated in thick ash. I get a head ache and cramps and... guiltiness rises up from the bowels of my soul, goes back down my throat and squeezes my stomach.

Memories of attending Catholic Sunday School as a child in London poke at my mind, chiding me by reminding me how very in the wrong I am.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I know.

But his eyes are shining pools of emerald, and he doesn't look upset in the least. Yes, surprised, startled, exhausted; but at least he's not crying anymore.

Another sudden pop of the dying fire and Joey jumps with fright, suddenly clinging to my arm and wrapping himself around it. His underwear is still bunched at his ankles. I feel his heart beat rapidly against my skin. I stare past Joey's head, at the alarm clock resting on the floor.

Five hours until our little sleep over is done with.

"I don't want to go to London tomorrow alone... I want to stay with you.." He burries his face into my muscled arm. In a few minutes of silence I feel wetness against it. Then a pitiful whimper.

I purse my lips and try to think of something sensible to say, but nothing comes to me. I rub my right eye briefly, pushing my hair out of the way again. I notice how soft Joey's hair looks and I decide to stroke his head, feeling the slick bit of sweat at his brow from our earlier intimate activities.

And I hold him. We shift for a long moment, the covers rustling, just trying to get as close to eachother as we possibly can. We never touch during the day; physical contact is akward and clumsy, as father and son's relationships very often are. But here, finally, just laying on the floor in a make-shift sleeping sack, we can lie here and do what we always wanted to; just to touch, to smell, to feel.

My hand strokes down his thigh, gently, trying to sooth him; The room no longer holds the bright orange light of the fire earlier, but just the deepest, readest ruby colored light reflecting on everything in the overly-masculine room.

I feel the gentleness of the pillow as I come to rest my head upon it as Joey works at digging himself into an even deeper level of physical contact, every bit of closeness not enough for him.

I want to say something clever; to help him deal with the distance that will soon be shoved between us. Soon an ocean will be put between us; and it's not necessarily that I will miss him that hurts so much, but because his time away from me will be_ good _for him. It will be for the best.

Instead of saying something wise or astute, rational or sagacious, I opt for reaching down and pulling his head up by his soft, round chin. His eyes widen, hair bounces, and I swiftly descend down upon him with my lips. I part his lips with my own and feel them gently open for me, soft and slightly wet. Cup his cheek in my hand and tilt his head up into the proper angle. Slip of the tongue. Hear him moan softly, eyelids fluttering closed again. I hold his tiny hand in mine and squeeze tightly, getting ready to lay him down for a second go around.

Our shadowed bodies shift for a minute and then meld into one figure, a creature with two backs. We disappear beneath the covers laying on the floor of our den, and I hear him sigh in content.

And he knows everything he needs to know.

Which is nothing.

---------------

Joey left for London the next morning.

The family stands infront of the house and says goodbyes. Joey and I shake hands as father and son would do. I want so much to grab him, embrace him to me, just feel his body against mine; and not in secret, either, but freely; to hold him and tell him that we'll see eachother soon. To not worry. To be safe.

But father and son do not do that. At least, we don't.

My heart feels like _lead_, plummeting down into my feet. I watch with mixed emotions as I see him slip into the backseat of Wintergreen's small red car, clutching his suitcase to his chest. He looks back at me and waves his hand one last time before closing the passenger door. Looking like his _heart_ is _dying_.

The bright blue sky of the African plains is not enough to take away the horrible melancholy feeling I have lingering in my chest; it makes my heart beat quicker, makes my eyes trace the movement of the car down the dirt driveway, and _urges_ me to run after it with all the speed I can manage.

Then the small little vintage car disappears over a hill and it's gone.

Adeline tugs at my arm and holds my hand. It takes every ounce of my personal strength to fight away the urge to smack her hand away from me. I bite my lip and barely notice it begin to _bleed_.

It's better this way.

I later learn that I probably will not see him again for an entire school semester.

And that's even if I'm still in Africa, and if he decides to visit for his Holiday break. The chances are slim that we will meet before the year's end.

It's _much_ better. For both of us.

Because I _can't_ see him anymore.

_'Out of sight, out of mind.'_

Joey will most likely grow into a fine young man away from me, and these feelings will die. It's just the way it has to be.

_'Distance only makes the heart grow fonder' ._

Im fine with it.

_End Flashback_

-FIN-(To be continued...)

Notes: SO. That flashback pretty much consumed this whole chapter and ate it. I didn't think it would. I think I just got carried away with it. I thought it was going to be short, but... there was still so much story to tell! This chapter got divided into two parts, so it's rather short- but the second part should be coming soon.

I feel like I'm treading into deeper darker waters with every chapter.. Joey and Slade's relationship just interests me a lot. It also defines Robin and Slade's relationship so much, no matter how you look at it, so... Don't blame me for devoting such time in it's development. Joey's a weird little kid. And Slade's a weird old man. Yay! If you were creeped out, umm.. feel free to complain in a review!

I promise Robin will be back very soon, too.

Slade's continuous dialogue was increasingly difficult to write... just because it's so hard to stay anywhere near character. He began talking in such short and incoherent sentences that I was getting worried that no one would be able to understand what he was trying to express.

Joey never got to explain himself, but he will in the next chapter. I originally thought this chapter was short, but then I noticed that it was just as long as the last two! It surprised me..

Thank you _so much _for taking the time to read and putting up with my sluggish updates. I'll make sure to reply to reviews this time.

Intimacy is so hard for me to write... 


	14. Rwy'n dy garu di part 2

The Bird and His Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive critisism is appreciated.

Disclaimer: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material possessions. I like my material possessions...

Notes: Ok. So after a long wait (Were you even waiting?) Chapter fourteen is here and.. well, Slade rants a lot. In his head. You'd rant too, if you were him. He makes a pretty stupid decision in the end, too. Well, stupid to us, because dramatic irony is a kick in the face. But to himself, he made the right decision- at least for the time being, anyway. what decision am I talking about? Go read already.

Oh, and this whole chapter is in present time. There is absolutely** no flashbacks**. This was done so that people will not be confused when I refer to Joey-inside-Robin's-body as simple 'Joey'. You _do_ remember that Joey stole Robin's body, right?

Reviews should be received by me, from you, after you finish this fic. They make me smile and make me write faster. It's true.

Thanks for reading and reviewing and being a spiffy audience.

_Slade's POV_

We eventually reach my bedroom after what seems like an eternity of holding hands and brushing shoulders in the dark, bitterly cold cog-infested hallways of my enigmatical compound. The boy next to me is still gripping my hand, small fingers lacing in between my own ones, but I don't look at him. We halt at the door, and I find myself fumbling with the meat-locker-like metal handle; I open it and right away, my living-dead son slips under my arm and prances into the room in a queer show of excitement. He twirls around several times on one tip-toe, imitating a ballerina. The black robe that I lent him flies up around his slender naked body; I quietly admire the sight of unrepressed or perhaps exaggerated enthusiasm. He eventually loses balance in his twirls and purposely dives backwards onto my bed, pale legs and thighs flying up in a jumble of oversized clothes and bedsheets.

I watch from the door way, hand still resting on the bitterly cold handle, unmoved; I've long since drip-dried, all but my hair, which still remains a shaggy, damp mess of spikes and tangles framing my face. The towel around my waist feels clammy and I'd really like to rid myself of it... but to do that, I'll have to step into the room, and stepping into that room, next to that boy, means facing something that I burried long ago and that I'd never suspected I'd have to confront again.

What the hell is _going on_? Things were going exactly the way I'd intended for them to. Robin would give in, I'd fuck his little brains out, he'd pledge is undying devotion, the_ end_. How did it all become so awry?

I can still remember him; Robin, drenched and wet, shaking; so thoroughly helpless and, to my delight, begrudgingly willing. I remember the way the water curved down the immature muscles of his body; how conflicted his body language_ was_, so frightened and surprised, and yet, in a way, incensed at the sight of me and the situation I forced him into. The eyes behind his mask, a vague picture of bewildered arousal and mistrust... I realize now that I should have gone slower- but it's difficult to do that when the opportunity is right there, ready and practically begging to be taken advantage of.

Like I once explained to Batman, there's no more opposition; no one standing in my way anymore for me to grasp what I want. So what is holding me up? Why am I taking so long?

I remember it began going wrong when I asked to take off Robin's mask. It was, in retrospect, a simple request, and Robin should have been grateful that I stooped down low enough to even ask _him_ permission. I only did this because I knew that Robin could not refuse such a request from his Master, and the end result was imminent. Like I premeditated he would, he caved and obliged, and immediately, I was glad that I had asked; that I had waited. Because Robin's eyes were... amazing. _He_ was amazing. It was like I had unlocked some sort of holy treasure, and only I held the key. His eyes were blue and dazzling little puddles, but even more than that was the emotion they held. All of the pain and fear and uncertainty of a fledging young boy; being hidden for so long and then being exposed in a sudden moment of intimate desperation... there is no way to describe it enough to deliver justice.

And at the moment, I was glad that I hadn't taken away his virginity just yet. Because those eyes might not have been the same explosive shade they were if I had.

It was the most foolish type of love at first sight. The part of me that I had been trying to kill off, the human me that I often do not even admit even exists, was aroused for a brief moment, as though it was suddenly dowsed with cold water and woken up in startled confusion. It was the sort of moment cheap love songs are carved out of. And I was certain that that breath of fresh air had been the stuff of love.

But then something became.. strange. The moment I felt that feeling, it was utterly shattered and killed off; crushed by another; by jealousy, something I'm definitely not a stranger to. But it wasn't my own emotion this time around, and I quickly realized this. Then, in a split second, it was gone; but before I could feel relieved, I saw Robin's muscles twitch- I saw the fear on his face, the very look I must have just held myself- he pleaded with me to help him, but it was too late. Robin knocked himself unconscious, and woke up seconds later as another person.

Supposedly, my late son, Joey.

But more on that little fable later on.

Joey is inside Robin's body; of course, Robin's body looks the same as it always has, on a purely physical level. Still short, slender and strong, same round perfect ass, same black hair resting down the sides of his face; the only difference I can find is that his eye color has changed. No longer that eruption of sincere azure, his eyes have warped into a drunken moss-color, obviously a symbolism of his current possessed state.

But considering their conflicting personalities on a psychological plain, Robin verses Joey, it nearly painfully apparent that he is a completely different person now. His mannerisms have gone from boyish to girly; from careful and respectful to careless and insubordinate. From stand-offish and even a little prudish to clingy and sexual. It's not hard to place the differences, differences not even Robin could ever fathom to fake or to act.

But it's still difficult to wrap my head around; hard to grasp, because it is not something that I can prove. Not in a logical way, and that's what worries me. I am not in control of the situation anymore, as I am accustomed to. I have no escape, no trap door, no backup plan, nothing; I hate it. It's like a psychologist getting psychologically examined by a toddler; I am usually the one playing with emotions, utilizing weaknesses and making other people's weak points my strength. But there is no way to tip the scales anymore, no way of getting out of becoming hurt again. I'm sitting in the palm of this kid's hand, because I want my Apprentice back; because I need to know if it's Joey. I want answers. Not only about how this all happened, but...

...But about how he _felt_ back then. Back when things were better for us. When he was still alive and_ beautiful_.

My thoughts are snatched away from me when I see the boy sit up on my bed, still curling his hair with his fingers. The whole front is now a mess of black curls, staying in place because of the dampness of his hair. His new curls bounce obscenely with his newly colored green eyes, and I hate the look of it. They are virtually nothing compared to the sincerity of Robin's, the picture of them still fresh and vibrant in my mind's eye. They're dull and placid and ugly and don't do his perfectly shaped face justice.

He notices that I am no longer following him, and twists around and looks over at me. He gets a calm look on his face as he leans back on his elbows, legs whether intentionally or not, spread open wide beneath the lazy concealment of his robe, providing a more than gratifying view.

"Papa.." His chest is exposed from the loosely hanging fabric of his garment, and he swipes a hand down Robin's lightly muscled chest as he stares up at me with a catty look in his eyes. His hand dips lower, disappearing under the fabric of his robes with a small giggle in his throat. I stay where I am though, frozen, my hand white-knuckled gripping the door handle as though I may float away and drown if I don't hold on to it with everything I have.

He bounces a few of the newer waves in his hair and smirks darkly. His voice rings with a childish kind of chiding that can only come from someone with the mindset of an elementary school student.

"What's wrong? I promise I won't _bite_, Papa."

I twitch because I vaguely recollect saying that very thing to Robin earlier, in an attempt, if I remember right, to corner him into succumbing to me. My own son is mocking me. Making me feel as vulnerable as I'd made Robin feel just a little while ago. An efficient, neat way of taking revenge. He's got an invisible collar around my neck, and he knows just how to yank it to make me heel.

I feel more of my internal defenses getting knocked down; I can barely stand it. I'm stronger than this, but the situation has boiled over far too much for me to control without burning my hand.

My hand feels numb, and a small piece of me doesn't believe that it's my own hand reaching behind my back and shutting the door; shutting myself in with this thing that holds no physical threat, but an emotional bomb that definitely won't kill me, but will leave a pretty nice scar in its wake.

I amble over to the bed, taking longer than I should. I sit down on the edge of it, one leg bent and resting on the top while the other hangs down the side of the mattress. He crawls towards me with a small little smile on his face, but I turn away; it's hard to look at him. He grasps my arm, but I give him nothing but a cold apprehension.

I'm scared. It's all too weird and uncomfortable and... well, I just never fathomed that this part of my life would come back to haunt me. It almost makes me want to laugh at the irony and the nice, neat little sucker punch to the face karma's delivering.

He gives a disappointed sounding sigh, flirty and sarcastic, and I feel his arms, covered in hanging black fabric, slip over my shoulders from behind me. He's on his knees, brushing his hand through my hair while the other rubs a finger along my thigh.

"Papa, please don't be cross... you know how much I've wanted you. How much I love you. I never want to let you go. Never again..." I feel his breath on my neck as he strokes my scalp; then a shiver when he starts kissing the back of my ear and brushing his second hand against my hip.

God, I hope this isn't a dream. A false sort of hope is starting to rise in my stomach like helium, grasping at straws; not caring that this kid is strange, that I know nothing about him, that he took Robin away from me; just the association with Joey makes me want to trust him; to trust _something_ after being deadened for so long.

And so I ignore whatever it is in the back of my head telling me that something isn't quite right.

He curls himself around me, clinging to me for support while he moves to plant himself squarely between my bent and slightly spread apart legs. He straddles me, shifting and brushing up against me; making himself comfortable. As he does so, he reaches up and cups my face, tenderly stroking my visible cheek bone and peering into me. I look down at those alien-like green eyes and every time I do, I feel a sense of sorrow that is indescribable and makes me want to sieze away from him, but at the same time, makes me want to please him in a way that will make that expression vanish.

There is still a small part of me that hates seeing Joey sad. Hated and still hates seeing him cry. And I know that I'll do anything to keep him from doing so.

"Papa.." He leans up and kisses me, tilting his head up planting one right on my lips. But he doesn't remove his afterwards, staying them, decidedly beginning to kiss me harder and fuller and more passionately, until I feel Robin's small tongue poke its way past my lips to brush and lick and tug at my own, his breath hot and smelling of mint and chlorene and just... _young boy_. "Mm-mmh.." I don't bother to fight it, and I let him take me with his mouth; I can practically taste his hunger, his need for this, like he's been waiting for it for years.

His smaller tongue probes me, taking the initiative; and god, part of me wishes this were Robin doing all of this, while the other half is pleased that Joey is here with me. His hands are resting at my hips, playing with the knot securing my towel. The sensation of having him resting in my lap, having Robin's body sitting so pertly in my lap, is too magnificent for words. I remember a time, he sat on my lap in my chair as though he were my pet; but it was never like this. Never so close, and never so intimate. I keep having to remind myself that it is _not_ Robin, but it's difficult.

I contain my excitement, though, because honestly, the part of me that appreciates logic is outweighing the part of me that is turned on; at least right now, and if I ever want to get to the bottom of this little self-contained mystery, I'd better act upon it before it's too late. I know full well that self control is not my strong point.

"Joey-" I practically have to pry his mouth away from mine, and he tries four more unsuccessful attempts at kissing-or smothering- me again; I dodge all of them, and when I turn back to look, his head is hanging as though I'd reprimanded him, his face looking like he's about to burst into tears. But before I can get a word in edge-wise, he's wrapping his arms around me and squeezing like a child hugging their favorite stuffed animal. He buries his face against my chest.

Hiding.

He whimpers, and to someone other than me, it might have sounded fake; hollow. But I want it so badly to be real, I carelessly ignore it. When I don't comfort him like he expected, he mewls, "Why don't you love me, Papa?" his voice is high-pitched, squealing with the pinch in your throat you often get when you try to hold in a fit of sobbing.

He snuggles up to me in working but also forced show of attractive vulnerability and he whispers in a diseased voice, his gaze directed upward,

"All I wanted.. was to be loved.."

"_Joey_..."

I hold his shoulders and shake him a bit. He's looking away, sniffling with tears draining all over his face and from his nose. His shoulders are shaking, and the sight is pitiful at best. His abnormal green eyes look strange though, growing more and more into a queer color that I cannot name.

He hasn't grown up a day. Why am I so pleased with that?

"I'm sorry, Joey. I just can't believe... it's a little hard to let it sink in.."

I feel something warm get lodged in my throat as all of the most powerful feelings of remorse, regret, longing, love, lust.. they all intertwine and make me feel like I should be sick all over the place with the intensity of them. I can't keep myself from spilling what I've wanted to say for so long. And in the middle of my speech below, I end up holding him in my arms. What I began as an attempt to explain my disbelief, it soon becomes a declaration of feelings I am not supposed to have anymore.

"...I just can't believe it's _you_. That you're with me again. I thought you were dead. Why wouldn't I? You died in my arms, and it was all my_ fault_. How did this _happen_?"

Joey looks blatantly hurt all of the sudden, pounding his fist on my chest with flimsy strength. He's obviously not used to the body, because if Robin had done it, I'm sure it would have hurt a far deal worse. His fragile assault feels like nothing but a tickling feather against my battle-scarred chest.

"Why does it matter how? Why aren't you happy that I'm back? Why can't you love me the way you used to?" I almost want to flinch from his passionate battery of emotional vocalism. He tosses himself dramatically onto his stomach, landing with kicking legs like a child throwing a tantrum. I've never heard such loud, high-pitched crying in my life. Joey was never like this as a child.

He's certainly taken the needy part of his psyche to.. an extreme.

"Joey.." I try to soothe him, brushing a hand down his back, down to the small of it where it eventually curves into his butt. Robin's ass is the perfect size, compact and so small; I imagine my whole hand could fit around it if I tried it out. I can practically feel my body temperature rise with that thought and the agonizing suppression of all that I've ever wanted to do to this fucking little body.

I don't know how long I can hold out.

..So maybe I'll play into his hand and develop a strategy later..

"..Can you forgive me?" I ask in a low voice, fingering the sash of the robe and tugging on it little by little.

He turns only his head around to look at me, craning it. Tears are still draining everywhere, and if it were Robin, I'm sure I would have to laugh at the sight, because I don't think I've ever seen Robin truly lose his cool. I remind myself again.

He sniffles, his ugly green eyes avoiding my own. "... you were about to replace me... I couldn't help wanting to stop you..."

He sits up on the bed, his half-erect boyhood peeking up from the bottom of his robe. I take a hard swallow of air to keep myself from reaching out and touching him. That's just what he wants. Just what I want, and just what he knows _I_ want. But the fatherly, lovesick part of me that is weak and stupid can't help but feel bad, seeing the flushed face of my apprentice and the distraught mental state of my son, and with its bleeding heart, abandons my own quest for answers in favor of a far easier and enjoyable alternative. He's obviously unstable, and probing him for information may only worsen his condition.

Who knows? It may be like the effect of the Lazarus Pit; a temporary period of psychosis after being revived.

The theory dawns on me, and suddenly the apprehension of this boy is gone. The suspicions dissipate like snow on a hot summer's day. Like a weight taken off my shoulders or a breath of fresh air, I wonder why I never thought of it before.

This strange, crazed, temperamental and unstable Joey is _probably_ just temporary. I'll have the real thing back to myself soon enough.

More false hope bubbling to the surface and creating epileptic butterflies in my throat._ Just temporary_. _Just temporary. Just temporary._

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I don't have to understand."

What's that? That's the faint smell of _bullshit _spilling out of my mouth. But maybe he won't notice. Indeed, the look on his face is one of pleasure and foolish contentment. Temporary Joey isn't the smartest tool in the shed I suppose.

But then, my thoughts and my words are conflicting. I do want answers. But then, on the other hand, maybe I really don't have to understand him. He's in Robin's body, and he's just sitting there, waiting for me; offering himself, and I haven't had a good fuck in a long time. No struggle and no drama. Not what I imagined my first time with Robin would be like; but then, it's not really Robin, so it's perfectly alright. Robin's mind will still be full of purity, and I'll get what I've obsessed over for the passed year.

Yeah. No struggle. No drama. No Robin. I can deal with that.

_Can't I?_

All I'm doing is throwing away everything I've worked on with Robin for the passed half year. The spite hits me like a slap in the face, but I choose to ignore it. I need to take a position on the motion and stick with it lest I get caught up in both sides of my own argument. An argument neither side can win.

I'm not even sure what I'm talking about anymore.

"Papa? Are you listening?"

I shake my head a bit and small droplets of water go everywhere. "Nnh?"

"I want you to kiss me." His voice is sullen and pouting and delectable-sounding, and most noticeably,_ forcefully innocent_.

The request is so juvenile and forceful that it seems begrudgingly easy to accomplish. I lean down swiftly and plant one right on his lips. I stay there, feeling his warmth. Kissing him. Kissing Joey. I realize that I can really tell that it's Joey, because I recognize the way he leans in so sharply up when we kissed. Like he's always eager. Because I never gave him much attention? That must be the case.

But I had secrets. I had a white picket fence to maintain. How could I have ever given him the affection he wanted back then? It was impossible. We were father and son, and society wanted to keep us in those parameters. There was no room for... _this_.

But now?

I can give him everything he wanted but never received from me. I owe him that much. I only _killed_ him, after all.

Joey sighs against my mouth. Both our eyes have slipped shut; more mint and chlorene and boy scent filters through my nose and up to my brain. I feel the man-made curls of Robin's black hair against my cheek as he turns his face ever so slightly, and slips his tongue into my mouth. He massages mine with his own, illicitly hot and wet and so very small, tilting his head even further up into mine.

I feel Joey's hands pushing on my bare chest with limp strength. He continues petting my mouth with his tongue, while I lean down across the bed, resting my body weight on my elbows. He straddles me again, one of his fingers rubbing idly against the center of my chest. He breaks the kiss, his swampie-looking eyes opening lazily while he leans down abruptly to worship my chest, tracing the hard, definite lines of my muscles with his finger. First I feel his breath, then his lips, sowing half-parted kisses against my right nipple.

"Hmmn..." I mouth, placing a hand on the back of his neck and stroking the back of his hair, still straight and spiked with dampness as it should be. I stroke it in my fingers, scratching the back of his scalp. He teases me with chaste kisses, incredibly soft and fleeting only to be replaced by the next tingling little smooch. My hand grips the back of his head harder than I really mean to, and I must shake and groan like a perv when he dips his head lower.

He rubs his cheek against my abs; cut, defined muscles sloping down the curve of my body and gradually disappearing between my hip bones. I suck in a breath of air, causing them to flex and appear even more articulate than before as he works on worshipping each muscle with a lingering kiss. His nose brushes against my navel as his head pushes lower.

He comes to a halt and admires the rising bulge between my legs, a small, prudish giggle coming from below. My cock is pushing up the soggy fabric of the towel into a peaked tent. He looks up at me, a smirk on his face, obviously pleased with himself. I brush my hands through his hair some more, affirming him and urging to him to go on with a vague, lazy nod of my head.

He unfastens the knot of my towel, causing my breath to hitch for a moment. Uncovered and leaning backwards on my elbows, I glance down and see my own familiar, swollen erection, totally exposed in to the room. The surrounding air is cold in comparison to the warm, rushing blood inside it, causing it to burn into a hot, blushing color. Joey marvels at it like he's never seen one before. I affectionately scratch behind his ear and apply a bit of pressure on the back of his head, trying to lower him down. But he pushes back into my hand, a futile attempt at fake resistance. Or is he truly apprehensive? I wouldn't blame him. Even though he'd be an adult if he hadn't died ten years ago, his essence is still that of a child. He's going to have to get over it quick.

He does. My eyelid flutters and my fingers twitch when I feel the warm and the soft of his small hand touching at the base of my length. Slender fingers curl around, grasping at it like a child fascinated with a new toy. His entire hand is unable to fasten around the whole thing, but he tries to anyway. He squeezes softly, feeling, curious; every brief, chaste little touch sends my mind reeling. The teasing is too much to bare.

After a few more meandering strokes and shy touches, his grip becomes more firm, and more confident. He strokes me with both hands, up and down, creating swift, gratifying friction that sends shivers through my limbs and makes my mind shudder. I bend my back into him, and he goes a bit faster; he avoids the tip of my arousal. He saves that spot for his lips, which descend to kiss and suckle at the very stub of my swelling erection. My hand convulses behind his head as I throw back my own, groaning out his name, clutching at the covers. I look down and see his pink tongue flicker out of his mouth, tasting the bead of pre-cum at the tip. Then his lips close around me, the hot slickness of his mouth causing me to arch my back off of the bed. He pumps the base of me with quick, excited strokes with both hands.

This causes me to sit up straighter, leaning on a single arm while I push his head closer and deeper with the other. He resists initially, pushing back against my hand; it a takes a moment, but I'm sure he realizes what I want him to when he moves his working hands to grasp my knees in a sort of mindful preparation.

I feel a small smile curl onto my face at his obedience; then I realize with mild displeasure, _again_, that this is not Robin submitting so fully to me, but Joey. A deformed Joey at this, who would probably do this at any time if asked.

Yeah, No thrill, no win, no long-coveted-finally-owned. But I convinced myself that I could live with that if it meant talking to the real Joey, and I'm sticking with that.

There's nothing wrong; except it's just too_ easy_. _He's_ too easy.

But I'm already pushing my hips forward at a slow pace, shoving Joey's (Or Robin's, if you want to get technical) head between my thighs. He doesn't oppose this time, instead, conversely helping me by bobbing his head up and down to the rhythm of my hand behind his skull. His mouth is barely large enough to accommodate me, and the very fact is proven when I feel my cock kiss the back of his throat.

Joey gags, opening his mouth, suddenly letting a gust of fresh air into the hot, persperous cavern of his mouth. I take the opportunity to thrust in further, forcing him to violently deep throat me. I tilt the back of his head, roughly grinding myself into the back of his mouth, literally fucking his throat. It's vibrating with his own panting, pulsating with the need to either vomit or swallow, and my manhood is sensually raped in the process.

"Ohh, Joey..-! Ah..!"

I come with a vulgar-sounding moan, even for me, squeezing the back of his head and spilling myself into his mouth. Most of it goes down his throat, but what doesn't dribbles down the side of his mouth and down his chin. I see the flustered look on his face accompanied by my seed slipping down Robin's face, and it nearly makes me orgasm a second time.

_But then I remember that it's not Robin._

Joey carefully takes me out of his mouth, licking his chin clean in the process. God's sedative does it's job; I lay down, resting on my side, propped on one elbow and closing my eye. Joey immediately, like a puppy, takes the opportunity to crawl near me, rolling on his side as well as if we're newly weds spooning. I drape an arm around him in a casual embrace, mostly because, well... he was a _trooper_. I doubt Robin could have handled such a thing without having a mental break down.

But then, that's what makes that kid so interesting, isn't it? It's the challenge.

I wonder when I started forgetting that? It seems so important now.

That, just then.. it just felt like fucking a whore.

Ten years ago.. it was different. Joey was forbidden fruit. Something I could reach for, but never grasp. A sexual taboo. I eventually picked that fruit, in my den, under the comforters, but...

Yeah. It definitely is different.

It's just not... _Joey_. It's not _Robin_. It's something I can't name anymore, but it definitely isn't innocent or intriguing. It's just a simple fuck.

_What is it? What is it? What is it? What is it?_

I need to know, or I'll go insane. But I'm still a little apprehensive about probing him for answers when he's so wrong in the head.

He snuggles up to me; I notice he's very silent for a long time. But then, I wonder, maybe he's going back to normal; shy Joey, who doesn't babble so consistently like this.. thing. I'm quickly proven wrong.

"I... I'm leaving." He says, his voice shaking and quickening. He clings to my arm like it's a flag pole during a tornado.

I immediately sit bolt-upright._ "What?"_

"The Kid's waking up."

I realize after far too long that 'The Kid' means Robin.

"What... '_waking up'_?"

"Yes," says Joey, sitting up as well, legs bent in front of him, "I knocked him unconscious in the shower. But he'll only stay K.Oed for so long."

My mind races with questions.

I don't want him to leave, but I don't particularly want him to stay. I want my Apprentice back, but... having Robin means throwing away the past. Throwing away Joey. -And throwing away any chances of me understanding how all this body-switching-back to life situation happened.. and I'm not one to let things simply drift away into obscurity.

Joey sounds like he's having trouble speaking. He suddenly lurches forward and grabs my shoulders. Robin's pale face and its alien green eyes are looking up at me desperately. "I can feel him coming to.. I only have a few more seconds!" His voice starts changing from the squeaky-high pitch of a ten-year old to the normal, slightly lower pitch of a teenager. He's losing control.

"Wait-! You have to explain to me how this happened. I don't want you to-"

He touches my lips with his finger. "I'll still be lying dormant in his body. I just can't talk or control him when he's awake. You'll have to do something. If you want to talk, I'll... I'll... I'll listnnh to youhh..."

His words start to mumble together; his eyes flutter, and he's passed out; his body falls over and plops on the bed and I almost want to laugh at it. Then I realize that 'Joey' is gone and I feel anything _but_ the need to laugh. In fact, I feel the need to strangle something; to kill something and stop it from breathing. Because I hate feeling so mixed up.

But the transition between boys is apparent and surprisingly speedy. Joey's personality is gone, and I know, it's strange that I can tell just from the way he's sleeping. Maybe I'm just that obsessed.

He groans; his right leg twitches awake before the rest of his body, pushing his foot and ankle across the covers in a lazy-way of awakening. Then his fingers convulse; his eyebrows skew together in the way a little boy's does when he hears an alarm clock at six in the morning. Then his mouth purses together, his shoulders flex, and his eyes crack open.

His eyes are azure blue and crystal clear. The sight takes my breath away momentarily. Then I'm struck dumb. Robin again. He's back. A wave of relief crashes in my brain and leaves a foamy trail of guilt in its wake.

"Sl... Slade...?" He sounds groggy. But you could never tell that his body had been possessed by my dead son only a few seconds ago. He looks like nothing any worse than a simple afternoon nap had ever befallen him in the last few hours.

He sits up, teetering with fatigue; I lean in and help him. He must find my assistance strange, because he gives me an inquiring look, his shoulders curling up in a defensive way. No doubt, he's starting to remember what happened in the shower. I'm sure the fear he felt when Joey invaded his body is flooding back to him.

He covers his mouth with his hand for a little while in self-preservation; then he fingers the black robe he's wearing with curiosity. "What's... going on?"

I smile at him, touching his shoulders; this is Robin. The real Robin. It's refreshing. I look into his eyes, and I'm relieved that nothing ill happens. "I'll explain it to you later."

He rubs his eyes, curling his knees up a little out of habit when he's in my presence; shy. Still shy. Still scared. If I were in one of my usual moods right now, I'd have to slap him in the face for being insubordinate. But now, all perversion subsides and I'm left with just a fatherly feeling of relief, like a father reunited with his child who got lost in the museum or the subway, or the grocery market. I truly thought for a while that he was lost, too far gone for me to reach.

"Robin, stay here. I'll be back. Don't leave." Robin nods his head slowly, looking a little freaked out on account of the shaken tone in my voice. But it's true. I'm not who I am usually when I'm around Robin. I'm like a snail, flipped onto its shell with it's sensitive underside exposed. The past is catching up with me, and I don't want to make the sort of decision I have to.

I grab the towel, mashed and damp and plastered down against the bed from me sitting on top of it. I tie it around my waist, for Robin's sake, and really, just because I have a little more class than that. But not much.

I leave the room without looking back at Robin, returning to the hallway. I walk into one of the many supply closets, wrenching open one of the metal doors; it opens with a loud clang, and inside is a fresh uniform. The closet door has a grungy mirror hanging in its interior, hanging sideways. The reflective is mired by mold and rust. I put the entire outfit on, excluding the mask for a brief moment.

I reach out and straighten the mirror's angle to get a better look at myself. I idly stroke my beard, biting my lip in self-thought. It's not a bad picture; tan skin, high cheek bones, and choppy grey hair jutting out in natural, short spikes... it really is no wonder young Robin is so smitten with me. I look at my eye, its glossy blue iris cold and seemingly unfeeling. I sneer at it, and it glares back. I turn my back on my face after a moment, reaching down and grasping my mask in my gloved hands; I hold it out in front of me like an artist critiquing his own work. I touch the black side of it, and soon enough, painful memories of Adeline come shooting back like a barrage of gunfire into my mind.

I shake them away, briefly touching the eye socket, then trailing my fingers across the steel grates at the bottom that serve as a filter to change my voice. I put it on, and the very moment I slip it back into its proper place, I'm transformed into the monster that I am on the inside.

I've never felt that I deserve the face I was born with. In my youth, I was blonde, curly, blue eyed, straight-laced and religious, handsome - an immaculate little Aryan. While age and a nice dose of chemicals from years ago have turned my hair straight and grey, my eyes remain blue and bright and contradictory; I am not as beautiful on the inside as they make me out to be.

Some people say that eyes are the gateway to the soul. For normal people, that may be a correct assumption. For Robin, it is so painfully true that he'd rather hide behind a mask than risk showing what his eyes may leak out of his heart. But for me? My eyes are just a false representation.

Steel grates and black contacts in my mask are more my style.

Plus, the mask makes what I am about to do much easier for me.

My footsteps clamber painfully loud in the silence of my base; I slide my metal-covered fingers across the walls. The hallway's ceilings are all enormous, and above my head I can hear the spurts of steam and the intercourse of cogs and gears and pulleys and machines, all with a duty. Some control obstacle courses; some control utilities and power generators - some are just there to make distracting noises. But I like them. They're ugly and loud and absurd, just like the man who put them there.

I reach the medical hall, really just an oversized room with no door. Inside there is a single light flickering on and off, spasmodically illuminating the dingy surroundings. There's a cot in the corner hooked up to an I.V. machine. A desk sits in the center of the room. A shelf against the side of a rusting wall has medical supplies. A second shelf on the opposite wall holds medicine; that shelf is laughably vacant with only a few little empty yellow bottles, their contents long ago spilled across the surface of the shelf and onto the floor.

I step across the room, stepping on and thus obliterating some of the scattered pills littering the floor. I stand at the desk and shift through its drawers swiftly, searching; it takes a few minutes, but by the second one, I've found what I need.

I take the object in my hands, clutching it to my chest; then I step to the other end of the room, to the shelf with medical supplies, and find the second thing I need. I step backwards to the desk and I put them both together: and what do I have?

A syringe filled with sedative.

The overhead light creaks in the dismal silence, making a sound like a dying bird; the light's flickering has become even more inconsistent. I don't notice. I'm at the desk, staring at the needle in my hands; staring at the clear liquid loaded to the brim inside of it; facing my own self doubt. I can see my own reflection in the barrel of the syringe, warped into the shape of the reflective cylinder.

I don't know if I can do this.

But I have a decision to make. Not a clear one, and not one that I can easily make up for if I have any regrets; it's one that has to come from the gut. But in its essence, when you peel away everything, there is a very simple, concise question with only two possible answers and only one correct one.

Robin or Joey?

They can't exist at the same time; it's impossible. If one will live, then the other must become a dormant shadow. There is no alternative solution in sight.

Yeah, it's simple. Either way, I lose.

I squeeze the syringe in my hand, nearly breaking it. It doesn't, obviously, and I curse it for its composure; my shoulders hunch, and a single sob escapes my mouth and echoes in the placid room - I carefully shudder away the rest of them.

I turn on my heels and retrace the way I came, through the door, through the halls, and back to the bedroom. I reach the meat-locker door again, but I don't enter immediately. I just stand there, in the darkness, my hand resting against the handle with its broken padlock, stock still. I lean my masked head against the door and give myself approximately seven good minutes to change my mind before I can go back on what I have decided that I want.

I don't, of course. After what seems like hours of hanging my head and simply listening to myself breathe, I decidedly push open the door with a fumbling jerk; It opens louder and more shoddy than I meant for it to, but I realize that it doesn't matter. Robin's fallen asleep.

I admire him from the doorway; his skinny legs are delicately bent across the covers, the robe creased up to his thighs. His hands are wrapped around himself in subconscious loneliness, and I'm sure he got tired of waiting for me to return. I see him swallow in his sleep, a look of discomfort on his pale face.

My heart aches because I know this is the last time I'll see him sleep so peacefully. I don't wish to disturb him.

I step into the room with indecisive intent; but the moment my steel rimmed boot hits the floor, Robin's whole body twitches; I suppose Batman taught him how to be a light sleeper. He's immediately awake and alert. His blue eyes burn a whole through mine.

"Slade? What..."

I step towards him, not bothering to hide the instrument in my hands. He doesn't notice. His eyes are fixated for the time being on my mask, which he hasn't seen in quite a long time. The appropriate look of fear materializes on his features, and he goes so pale that he looks even more sickly and malnutrition than he already is. (Which should be impossible by now.) I'm pleased that the mask can still strike such a cowardly look on his face; I'm his brain equates it only with pain and fear and suspicion.

"Why are you wearing that again?" He asks, inching backwards on the bed towards the wall that serves as a headboard for the bed. He was getting too comfortable with my face; it just goes to show you how much Robin's comfort and 'love' with me was merely based on a purely physical level.

I take a few heavy steps towards the bed, and Robin finally notices the syringe in my hand. I don't bother to hide it from sight; it's a personal rule of mine not to strike from concealment. But Robin's eyes go wide with surprise, because I'm quite sure he has no idea what I'm going to inject him with, and that scares the shit out of him.

"Please don't... Why are you.-! Slade!" I pounce on top of him once I reach the edge of the bed, grabbing his struggling limbs and pinning him. I keep him still, lurching out a hand to grab at one of Robin's skinny, struggling arms- He lashes out, kicking and screaming out of pure reflex; I wrench his arm nearly out of the socket, taking out my frustrations on him. He screams in pain, shutting his eyes, forcing the tears out of them and down his cheeks. I carefully ignore them, distracting myself from my Apprentice's pain while I push up the material of one of his sleeves all the way up to his bicep. I pull his arm straight, locking it at the wrist, causing it to become rigid and immobile.

"Please, Slade- I'm scared! I don't know what's-- Aahh!" I plunge the needle deep into his skin, into the middle of his arm near the joint. Robin cries in pain, and then stifles it away with a stiff upper lip. A good soldier. All he has for comfort are his tears, which spill past his eye lashes and dribble down his chin.

I pluck the needle from his skin after a good while of waiting for the solution to filter through the needle and into his veins. I discard it on the floor and sit down on the bed beside him, holding him steady; I can already see the sedative taking its effect on him. He tries to lean away from my touch, but is far too weak to protest.

"Why, Slade...? I thought..."

"You thought wrong." I take off my mask, tossing it to the edge of the bed in disdain. I don't need it anymore.

He whimpers, his face contorting with strain and his shoulders shaking. I shoosh him. He knows what's happening, even if he doesn't know exactly why.

God, it's too much to bare with a straight face. Have I told you how much I hate seeing children cry? Especially kids as beautiful as you. Someday I'll tell you. Someday, I'll tell you everything, and why I had to do what I'm doing to you right now. But not now, and not soon.

It's hard, but I've got to keep it convincing. I know _he's_ watching, and _he's_ waiting to come out again.

I squeeze both of his shoulders, a bitter and lopsided grin playing across my face as I try hard to speak without losing my composure. "Didn't you know? I love someone else. You never stood a chance against him. "It's difficult to say, but I'm used to saying harsh things. I'm a bastard, so it comes perfectly naturally to break his heart. But despite my casual tone of voice, I begin to cry along with him. Not sobbing, but just silent tears that communicate all they need to. My Robin. We're both blubbering fools for each other.

His sobbing starts to die down as he looks into my eyes. His lips pucker, like he wants a kiss, but then they go back to normal while his eyes start fluttering with drowsy heaviness.

"Slade.." he mumbles groggily, his head growing heavier and leaning to one side, "I'm sorry..."

I smirk to myself, straightening up a bit with a shaken voice, "What for?"

"Sorry.. - wasn't..._good enough_.." It takes him so much effort to say the last of it before he exasperates, falls dead unconscious, his once rigid body now going limp in a forced laxation.

I hold his body in my arms, crying to no one but myself. I burry my face in his chest to hide my tears, wiping my cheeks on the robe he wears. I've never felt so small, so frustrated, so utterly fucked up. I'm human and it's unbearable. I wish I could simply go back to being nothing but a cold machine-like thing, but because of this Joey matter, I _can't_. In order to resolve this, I must _feel_, and I can't let myself run away from pain anymore.

The transition, again, between boys is marvelously speedy. Robin's body goes from lax to alive in only a few minutes; Joey's obviously getting more skilled at using and controlling the body. He awakens like someone who'd been trying to fake being asleep- far too easily, and far too expectantly. It only takes him a few stretches of his arms and legs to get used to it, all the while keeping his eyes closed. There's a pompous, defined little smirk on his face that communicates that Robin is gone once again and has been now replaced by 'Joey' for the second time.

Take a deep breath.

"Sorry it took so long."

I incredulously look away, because it's hard to look at Robin's face spoiled by such marring expressions.

"Don't be. I wasn't worried." This makes me look up at him sharply, wondering what exactly he meant by that; immediately, I wish he hadn't, because he meets my gaze with a far more confident one. His eyes turn from blue to impaired green, and for a fleeting second, I'm sure the whites of his eyes rotted into the color black.

I look at him with an Inquiring stare, "_Weren't worried?_"

He bends his legs femininely together, habitually curling his hair with his fingers. His voice is mocking and his gaze is defiantly obstinate.

"Yeah. I knew you'd choose me."

I've made the _wrong choice_.

-FIN-(To be continued!)

Notes: Oh goodness. Slade made a boo boo. He's getting annoying to write. He rambles and describes too much! I wish I could go back to writing Robin for just a little while. He's so much easier.. (le' sigh) Slade is a very difficult character to stay in character, and even though I know I didn't do it, I attempted. Rawr. I'm starting to hate having to write silly Joey/Robin's lines. I can never find the right witty/mocking little things for him to say.

The Rwy'n dy garu di arc shockingly concludes next chapter!

Thank you SO MUCH for reading. Please, be courteous and leave a review. I love them. Again, thanks for being such loyal and spiffy peeps, and patient to boot..


	15. Rwy'n dy garu di part 3

The Bird and His Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Disclaimer: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material possessions. I like my material possessions...

Notes: First off, I'd like to apologize for the extremely long delay in this chapter. My internet was down, but most importantly and without excuses, it just took me _really_ long to write. So if you can forgive me, please enjoy the conclusion of the first three-parter of this fic!

On a lighter note, it's (was) The Bird and His Cage's first year anniversary! Have you ever heard of a fic running for a whole year and barely being two thirds of the way done? It has been a long road. I'm surprised I can even crank out any chapters at all due to, you know... life. I'm so happy! Thank you to any of you that have stuck around since the beginning! And thank you to all of you who are reading! I love each and every one of you. You guys have NO IDEA how much you guys rock.

Joey is explained, although I feel I left his explaination purposely a little vague so that it might be expanded upon in later chapters. Hopefully the pieces will fit together, but if they don't, you can always drop a line in a review or my forum to ask questions. I think a lot of you will be pleased with how Joey is delt with, but I just pretty much wrote what I felt needed to happen. Hope you like how this first three-parter turned out.

About the intro at the beginning- the narrator of said intro is anonymous. It has a lot more to do with later chapters, but it sort of fit here better than anywhere else.

Reviews are like chicken curry. Yummy and delicious and appreciated in every single way.

"_Suddenly... I'm not half the man I used to be. There's a shadow hanging over me. Oh, yesterday came suddenly.. _." -The Beatles, _Yesterday_

_Intro_

Have you ever been innocent? The truth is that everyone is born clean. A blank piece of paper ready to be written or drawn on. A communal blank slate that anyone can leave an impression upon. We are all shaped by what is around us, the world we inhabit. If you are in the proximity of something long enough, it begins to effect you. Through life, people, ideas and choices, you can become either an attractive work of art or an ugly stain on the wall. A voluptuous suburban mural or a shit stain on the sidewalk.

But the longer you live or interact with others, the more chances there are to become dirty.

You can try to stay unsullied, by not letting anyone get close enough to touch you. You can keep yourself perfectly clean of sin if you keep people at an impenetrable arm's-length distance. To never be moved, to never open up, even in the presence of "friends" and "teammates". You can wear a dainty little black and white mask, and no one will ever have to know just how weak or corruptable the smooth, white surface of your never-been-touched paper-heart is. Because if you do open up, even a little bit, someone already perverted and sullied could steal your white paper heart and start scribbling all over you with black ink, turning you the same color as them. You may be more interesting to look at, but you'll never be the same shade you were, ever again.

They could do even worse to you. They could sweep you off your feet and take your heart away from you and tear it apart into unrecognizable shreds. Who could ever be so cruel to do something so obscene? Someone already dirty, sinful and disillusioned; trying to peddle their own feelings of misfortune and misguidance onto someone so beautifully chaste. Contemptually groping for a companion to share their misery with and inflict their imprudent desires upon.

You're ignorant. Isn't that what innocence is? Ignorance of the evil lurking in this world. You haven't met it until now. You don't recognize it when it shows itself to you. In fact, your lily-whiteness is attracted to the darker, bigger figure that exposes itself to your crystal-clear eyesight. You're drawn to it like a one-way gravitational pull. You are interested, because you've never seen something like it before; you've never seen something so interesting, so different, and the peddler baits and lures you because you are _gullible_. He is older and knows the rules of the game, and you don't. A little part of you realizes that it is unfair, but you fall for the fiend's tricks because you are entranced by the neoteric bane that tugs on you spasmodically by a collar of affection around your neck. You grow to love it because you seek to _know_ it: The monster hiding beneath your bed.

Yes, you love the crumbled-up piece of trash, old and battered and thrown away long, long ago. It hungers deeply for its past, of when it used to be licit and pure. It can't remember what it was like to be very decent or very good. It preys ravenously on clean, brand-new pieces of paper and yearns to have that purity all to itself, to understand it again. The hunger for this virginal offspring leads its desire for it to be morphed into a genital need, the cravings so perverse that its sexuality becomes aroused by the virginal lacking of its partner alone.

In the end, it accidentally kills the white, new piece of paper with its own longing and voracity. It strangles the very good and the very gentleness of the spotless paper crane and silences it forever. But how could he have prevented it? You were already dead to him. He realizes that if he _hadn't_ ripped up the piece of paper he adored, it would have become black and disgusting from simply being around him. The blossoming white surface would be blemished beyond repair over time. Living would begin to color it and change it into something different. The only way to immortalize that which it loved so, was to snuff it out.

Thinking this way allows it to lock the memories away and forget the little crane ever existed. His memory wiped clean of his mistakes, he takes the same ill-path over and over into eternity.

Everyone is born clean. Ignorant and blissful and filled with rapturous joy, of prudish ambition. Even Slade Wilson, now an old, crumbled-up piece of paper, dipped in hideous India ink and trampled on and aged beyond repair, was once a pure, untainted white piece of paper at his birth. An embryo clinging to its mother's womb, ready to hatch into the world that would eventually break him.

But what caused the child of God to become so adulterated? What caused him to stray from our path?

_Slade's POV_

"Yeah. I knew you'd choose me."

Oh, bloody hell.

What have I _done_?

I stare at him with a pallid expression evident on my face, and I can practically feel all of the pigment in my face sinking down into my stomach.

Robin woke up. I should have been content with that. But I wasn't. Joey was a lingering presence in my mind that I didn't dare get rid of. So I bartered. Robin for Joey; my decision was clear, concise, and ultimate. There's no way to take it back.

But I'm starting to wish that I could. I know just by his tone of voice that I've already made a big mistake.

"So how does it feel to be so assailable, Papa? Defenseless? Weak?"

My mouth opens, and my lips try to move to make words; my brain is numb and thus doesn't respond, and I'm left with a gaping expression on my face. Joey gives a deep, content sigh at this, adjusting the robe around his small frame and getting more comfortable across the bed's surface. His foggy, moss-colored eyes gaze at me over pale cheeks with an unchaste expression. His tone of voice is acutely innocent-sounding while he spouts vicious things that stab at the very depths of me.

"..It tears your confidence apart, huh? Makes you want to just roll over and take it?" He ends his sentence with a satisfied chuckle, as though he's astounded at his own wit. I turn to him with a cynical look on my face, trying to ignore that his words are like arrows that fly so narrow and strong that they knock out the bullseye in the dartboard that is my sanity. This is my son Joey, now using Robin's body as a medium for interacting with me after ten years of being dead. So why has he now become such a patronizing little snot? Why has his personality done such a 360 degree turn from the Joey that I thought I'd at least partially known from years ago?

And why now, of all times? Was it something that happened that was beyond his control, or was he consciously waiting for that very moment to make his presence known? Was he consciously inside of me, patiently waiting for the climax of my endeavors, of my budding relations with Robin, to trample and foil them on purpose? Did he will this all himself?

He starts curling one of Robin's strands of hair around his middle finger, but it constantly slips loose at the very end, as though he's expecting his hair to be longer than it is. Like it used to be. I want to slap his hand away and tell him to stop messing with the straight, jet black hair that was so attractive to me.

Robin's features curl into an incredulous smile that could only be rendered by a very disturbed individual. It makes me want to reel backwards because it reminds me so painfully of myself and the no doubt prideful, condescending, mockingly _friendly_ smiles I intentially berate Robin with on a daily basis. But I don't, because that expectant gaze of his pins me to the spot so that even my sweat doesn't dare to move an inch.

"Makes you upset, huh? I'm sure someone as strong and as _manly_ as you has never had to deal with that sort of feeling, huh? You just liked inflicting it on people _weaker_ than you." He says it limply as though the painful words are idle chatter, but I can hear the malice spiking in his voice that is unquestioningly sincere.

At that, I can't stand any more of his condescending chatter as annoyance and numbing denial bubble over and show generously on my facial features as I cry out, "_Joey_-!" I lurch forward and grab at him; I tug and stroke at the sides of his face, pushing the bouncy curls that obscure Robin's face away so that I can examine his eyes more closely, desperately trying to look into them and find at least the smallest, minute sliver of the old Joey that I so undeniably crave back into my life. That I _need_ back into my life.

"What are you trying to get at? What do you _want_ from me?" My voice shakes for a moment, slipping my finger down his cheek and tracing his jaw line, touching, feeling, searching his face for anything that will make me feel better, for anything that will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I somehow made the right decision. Grasping at straws.

Because really, when I did not think about him, when I ignored the fact that he'd ever existed, it was easy to live. It was easy to live day-to-day, convincing myself that I had no one to care for; nothing at stake, and nothing would be effected if I were to simply become cold and emotionless. For a long, long while, that was simply what I_ was_; I was content with inflicting pain and suffering, being a villain, playing the part. I don't have a problem with killing. I was always detached from everything, even when Joey was in my life. It was easy, and it suited me well. It was easy forget that I had a past, that I had people I'd hurt.

But now that it's all hitting the fan; now that it's being, as Joey so eloquently put it earlier, rubbed in my face; can I go back to being the monotone I was?

Joey looks away. Minutes stretch on like hours of him being moody and being silent. My mouth gradually curls downwards into a scowl at him, causing him to quickly grow more defensive and vocal. Joey could never take it when I was angry with him as a child, and it's no different now. He melts like butter at the thought of me unhappy with him, or 'cross with him', as he would put it, because he soon enough begins to spill his thoughts from his mouth like vomit from a Bulimic.

"I couldn't help being jealous..."

"Jealous of _what_?"

Joey doesn't answer me. I just watch as his eyes twitter and fret nervously from one corner of the room to another, seemingly glancing everywhere to avoid looking at me. I apply a little pressure to his shoulders and rock him a bit. His body sags with my shoves as though he's simply a limp doll. It's sad that I am almost pleased with myself at reducing him to such a nervous wreck as I was moments ago; a taste of his own medicine. _His own medicine_...

... Is that what this is about? Getting a taste of my own medicine? Is that his aim? Is _that_ what he wants?

"_Talk_ to me, Joey."

"...You and that kid. I _hated_ it."

"Robin?"

"Yeah, _him_." Joey's voice spikes with hatred at this, as though the very notion of Robin's existence deserves to be spat upon. His spite is the childish, selfish kind; the kind a racist has that is based primarily on stereotypes; the type a homophobe harbors when afflicted with the presumptuous points of view of society and the dribble they see flashing on their television. That's what I _think_, at least, because from my point of view, Joey has no concrete basis for his animosity.

Joey's eyes still haven't met mine, and I take that as the tell-tale body language of someone trying to hide something. Honestly, if he didn't want me to know, he wouldn't have even uttered a single word to me. He wouldn't have even shown himself. He wants resolution as much as I do. But what _is_ resolution in the eyes of a child killed by the father he only dearly loved?

His face contorts into a pout as he stares, fixated at the bed sheets between Robin's spread legs as he whimpers pitifully, shoulders shrugging with the effort of uttering, "Why'd you have to go and.. and get another one?"

"Another what?" Not quite understanding. Then I wish I hadn't even asked when Joey speaks the word that punches me in the face.

"Lover."

The boy says it in such an innocent fashion that I'm almost now _hoping_ that it is of feigned chastity; of course it is, because no person who can fling such little sarcastic comments could ever hold such a lily-white conscience; but still... half of me hopes that he is the Joey I loved, the Joey that was the purest angel and could never be sullied; conversely, the other half of me mocks and berates that very notion and knows full well that nothing can be so simple as it was ten years ago. I yearn so much for it to be the boy I secretly cherished so intensely, yet all signs are pointing to the very opposite.

"_Joey_.." My voice groans with evident pain and anguish, for now, I don't even bother to hide it; not behind a black and copper mask or behind a voice-changer or a smooth-talking facade. Joey's done a bang-up job of reducing me to a heap of quivering discontent at his feet. Simply making me wonder about him is damaging me; keeping me from grasping the control in all situations that I compulsively, pathologically _need_.

The word echoes in my head as I try to sort it out and find more clearly its meaning. Lover, lover, lover,_ lover_. One who loves. A paramour. A sexual partner. I don't know if I can bare to hear Joey call me his 'lover'. It hurts to hear him put it so... bluntly. I don't like thinking about it in that way. For the first time in a while, I think about it fully; not the bits in pieces, not the scattered details that I tell myself made it okay; not the _excuses_. The hard_ facts_. The big picture. The massive painting that my mistakes, my misgivings, my damn_ pride _has created with deft, sloppy strokes of events.

My own _son_ was my _lover_. Not yet out of elementary school and I'd already made him mine. Already soiled an unsulliable little boy. Whereas if events had gone differently, Joey would have probably lost his virginity in college to that nice girl McWhat'shername down the dorm hall. But no. That somehow wasn't good enough for me. I'd tip-toed to his room, drunk and stupid, inhibitions gone; I'd climbed ontop of him- oh, man, did I... I climbed ontop of his child-sized mattress; heard it scream under my weight, and at the time, I had to double-check if it had been Joey who had been doing the screaming.

But in the next few minutes, Joey and the mattress would inevitably be singing a duet that night.

It's devious. It's insane. Amazing.

And I'm not sure if I can bare to _call_ or even _think_ of Joey my (former) lover. It doesn't seem fair to _him_, because even _I_ am not sure about whether or not I truly, madly loved my own son, or if I was simply attracted to him for shallow reasons. Yes, back then, ten years ago when I was far younger and far less cynical, I sincerely did believe that what I was doing with Joey couldn't possibly hurt anyone in the long run. Wildly foolish, right? Insensitive and selfish? It's just who I am.

Maybe, in my blind groping and heretical, mind-numbing search for justification of my clearly guilt-ridden, insatiable pedophilic, homosexual and incestuous urges, I convinced myself that it was love. That if it was all out of love, it was all ok; that if there was no ulterior motive, it was ok; that if I was truly in love with my son, I obviously could have absolutely no control over my feelings and actions, and that fucking the life out of him was clearly the only route to go. Is love a sickness that has no cure? And if so, did I fake the symptoms of that very sickness to dodge the draft? To skate neatly past the responsibility and the consequences of what I was doing and feeling? Of what I was doing to my son?

What if it was all just a simple case of unconscious escapism? To hide from myself the fact that my love wasn't just love, but simple lust- or even worst- just a bad case of psychosis due to my 'accident'? What if my feelings weren't feelings, but caused by the chemicals and mood swings? What if my feelings weren't even my own at the time? Has all the inward suffering been a lie to justify what I did to Joey? That I took advantage of a simple little choir boy with an equally simple love for his father?

Another good point; was Joey's love even the sort of love I believed it was? Years ago, I pompously thought it could be no other kind. Joey _obviously_ harbored the same feelings as I did, because if he didn't, why didn't he tell anybody that I was touching... molesting... ... ... raping.. him? Why didn't he run to mommy crying the moment he had a chance? To Wintergreen? The kid went to a bloody Christian school, for god's sake. He knew it was wrong. Why didn't he expose me? Tear down the white picket fence I'd built, and get me jailed for abuse? It would have been a simple thing to do, and it would have solved all of Joey's problems. But he _didn't_. Joey chose not to. He _let_ it go on. He's_ not _the victim.

One would think that would clear my conscience, right? That if he chose that path, if he chose to allow me to make love to him, to be with him in the intimate way that we were, then it was actually what he wanted in the first place. That he had no regrets. I honestly thought that for the longest time; that Joey was unconditionally mine and would for ever be, even after his death. That's how it was, before all of this shit hit the fan, and now I'm not so sure.

But then, you're forgetting one very important loop-hole; a detail that is very prominent in cases such as these. Where an adult, a close relative... a fucking central _family _member.. takes advantage of a younger, weaker, more susceptible human being... a little boy, a touchy, gentle, conservative one at that... and that is _fear_. Joey was probably just too._fucking._scared of me to tell anyone about what I was doing to him. The magic ingredient that fucks up my whole ability to view this situation with any clarity is my unsureness about whether it was lust or love or insanity that drove me; and whether or not Joey was kept by my side by love or carnal fear.

Did Joey suffer all those nights I took him to bed with me? Was every touch I bestowed upon him agony? Was every moment with me air in his veins? It was so long ago, I can't even remember seeing any pain in his eyes that could somehow quell my wonderings. That time has become so warped, dull and muted in my memory, probably on purpose, that it's difficult to pick out anything distinct. It's like a grainy, silent movie with an unclear picture, and you've got to make up the meaning yourself out of a few fragmented images and raw material.

"Joey," I say again, trying to clarify my defense as gently as possible, "I... I had lots of.. of _partners_ while you were dea-... _'away'_. Al_ot_. Robin is just... he's just the most recent of _many_."

"I _know_ that!" Snaps Joey, temporarily and accidentally slipping back into Robin's voice for a split second, so quick and so evident that it shocks me. The sudden change of pitch is unnerving, and the boyish, slightly rasping sound of Robin's voice compared with the disgruntled girlish voice of Joey makes me flinch away in surprise.

Joey coughs into his hand suddenly, trying to cover up his vocal mistake. This is the second time he's done that; lost his composure, and his control over the body that is not rightfully his.

"Then why..?" I ask, frustrated with dancing in mental circles with him.

Robin's face displays Joey's disgust as he turns his head sideways and cringes out each word, "Because you... you tried to replace me. I could tell you did. I could feel it inside you the whole time. You wanted me, but you settled for something else. An imitation."

"You could... what?" I ask, not quite understanding his whispered mumbles.

"Yes," says Joey, growing a little bit more relaxed with his explanation, "When I died... I don't know how, but instead of dying along with my body, I somehow siphoned myself into yours. I don't know how I did it, but once I was in there I never wanted to leave. I was glued to your warmth like a baby in the womb. You see, while I was in your body, I wasn't just sitting in there. I was part of your consciousness. Latched on as a part of _you_. And I felt every feeling _you_ felt. And while I made my womb inside of you, everything you did and felt and thought, fed me and helped me grow stronger and more healthy. I couldn't affect you, of course, but you effected me in a _big way_.."

I just stare, carefully considering what he's saying, half-way believing and half-way ready to pinch myself and wake up. I feel insane and euphoric, talking to my ex-ghost-'lover' and trying to understand what he's trying to get across without seriously considering a trip to the loony-bin. (Not that I wasn't already in dire need before-hand..)

"And," starts Joey again, adjusting the robe idly as his eyes shift downward, "I could feel all of your pain. All the hurt you went through. I felt every bit of it. I couldn't really _see_ what was happening. Obviously, since someone not attached to their body can't possibly _see anything_ or _physically _feel anything.. but.. I could feel your thoughts, and I could experience your life. I could feel your thoughts, and I could connect them and put them together with all of the pain and agony you went through after I died. For example, I know what that bitch of a Mother did to you after I 'died'. I know she hurt you." With this, he leans up against me and touches the right side of my head, shifting my hair from my face; the side that has no eye; the side that, on my mask, is ashamed and covered with the color black. He doesn't touch my eye patch, though; reserved, he simply strokes my cheek as he talks to me, like a parent explaining to an upset child why it can't buy the toy-train or the crayons that it wants.

"For a while, I was so happy. I was just content that I could be so close to you. Inside you. I didn't mind never being able to see your face again... or to feel your touch. You were all around me, and I was a part of you, and it was the happiest existence I could ever hope for. It was enough."

"Until you tried to _replace_ me, that is."

I look down at him, and his eyes race up to stare up eagerly at me like a teenage boy at a strip-tease picture show, all the while meeting mine with plastic shyness that you usually only see in corny porno movies.

"You see... when I was alive, you never gave me much attention. And when you did, it was fleeting and brief and left me only yearning for more. I always felt like you didn't love me enough to be close to me. To be anything more than my distant father-figure. I was so _unhappy_.. Mother and Wintergreen weren't enough. Living was almost unbearable. I always wanted you to touch me, always wanted you to be closer to me. That's all I ever wanted. I was so starving for your affection, so partched,that I thought I'd do anything for your recognition. I _knew_ I would."

"And then that night came... when you came into my room. I was scared. I didn't understand what I was happening. I was too young- all I knew was my hunger for your attention. I thought that any way you wanted me would be good enough to satisfy me. As long as you _did_ want me, in some way, in some shape or form. You were always something far away, never touching, never making any _effort_ _to_- always something that I could reach out and grab for, but never truly feel. So when you finally decided to be close to me that night.. I was so _happy_. It _was_ good. I thought that as long as my Papa loved me, everything would be ok."

"I was so lonely all the _time_... of the friends I had, they were all picked out by Mother, or were the spawn of her disgusting friends. But you were the only thing that mattered, the only constant thing in my life. You were my god, my shining beacon of light, the thing I woke up in the morning to impress and please. Even when you were away weeks and months at a time, I awaited the days when I could show you my report card or paint for you, or sing you a song. I greedily devoured every gentle pat on the head you gave me as recognition that I did something good; but it somehow wasn't enough. There was still so much empty."

"..So... when you snuck into my room and kissed and touched me... I _was_ scared. I'd never felt physical things like that. I, probably like you were and all of the other Wilsons before us, was brought up as a prudish little jail-bait Christian boy with no outside influence but the things deemed necessary by the church. But I didn't even dare to think of telling anyone about what you did- partially because I was afraid of you. You were still so far away, on your pedestal, I thought that you could smite me at any time for disobedience."

"But... the most part was.. I didn't _want_ to tell anybody..."

I evaluate every single word Joey says in my mind, trying to place them and decipher them as best as I can. They sound so... foreign. One does not expect to hear the testimony of the son that you wronged after he's been dead for tens of years.

His explanation is almost creepy, scary and horrifyingly beautiful in the fact that I was to Joey what Joey was to me all those years. We obsessed over each other, never knowing that the other held the exact same feelings. We tricked each other so well that we should have won Oscars for such high-caliber performances. It's the greatest prank, the most horribly upsetting irony; and yet, no matter how shakily overwhelmed I feel, I manage to push it out of my mind and focus on what I need to.

And yet, it all seems oddly... _rehearsed_. Go ahead and call me paranoid. Despite the sorrow of the context in his words, I can feel prickling anger in the tone of his voice, as though he's holding back something that he wants to say.

And, to make things worse, there's something queer about his manner of speech. It is not young, it is not gentle; not so much as it used to be a long time ago. His observations are not those of a child anymore, even though it is apparent that he's trying so desperately to play the part of one. He's_ lying_. That much I can be sure of. Not confident about what or why, but he is definitely no longer the little saint I always pictured him to be. Either Joey's personality has changed over time... or Joey was never the innocent seraph I thought I'd loved.

And if he wants to act, then so will I. I'll play into his hands in order to dig deeper and find out what's wrong with him.

It's easy. All I've got to do is swallow my pride and say the things I've always _wanted_ to say, but never had the modesty nor the balls to speak or even think about until now. And damn, saying it all in plain words _hurts_. I'm not even sure _I_ believe I mean all of what I'm about to say, because really, it's a little hard to shake off ten years of regret, or self-loathing, and most of _all_, outright denial. Denial that the twisted little creature sitting in front of me even existed.

"You make it sound _planned_," I say, reaching forward and rubbing his face with my thumb to calm him down, "But it wasn't. It never was. I never planned to hurt you. To love you. If it were up to me, I would have _stayed_ distant; so far away that I could never hurt you the way I did." I brush my hand along his jaw and speak in the most velvet-soaked voice I can muster to soothe my deranged child.

"But I wasn't strong enough, was I? We never are."

I stop a minute, gathering my thoughts, and then go on.

"And the reason I was distant... Well, just know that I had my reasons. Important ones. But back then... I had a job that put my family at risk. I knew someday, something horrible, in some way, was going to happen to you, or your mother, or Wintergreen... so I worked on not being human; so that when that time came,_ I _wouldn't get hurt."

A smooth out Robin's hair, subconsciously trying to get the curls Joey put in it straightened, "I know it was selfish. It's unforgivable. I can understand your anger. I ran away from my responsibilities as your father in order to do what _I_ enjoyed; to keep myself from hurting you, and thusly getting myself emotionally hurt again; when all that time, I was ignorantly damaging _you_ all the same, by not being _there_ for you. I was never a father to you, I can admit. Yes, I played the part of the perfect head-of-the house as best I could.. but it was all just an _act_. An act to make myself feel better; to keep you and your mother from realizing what was wrong with me. But it didn't work in the end. Nothing did. You were still killed, and it was again because of my selfishness."

I sigh deeply, feeling the weight of my words that have been long kept shamefully inside,

"I've been nothing but selfish to you, Joey."

His pupils wobble and I see a bit of water begin to well at the edges of his eye sockets, making his eyelashes shimmer. He's buying it. In a way, I am too. They are the words coming from my heart, I realize; the thing that I convinced myself had gone cold and lifeless a long time ago. The thing that had helps me convince myself that I'd let Joey get killed on purpose; the thing that helped me convince myself that Robin was a thing to be dominated and not a thing to be handled.

My heart has been nothing but treacherous and cold and dangerous. It changes its mind like Two-Face with a double-sided coin. It can't be trusted, and that's why I sought so madly to kill it; I wanted so badly to simply be a machine, to be a single cog or gear in a clock; to do nothing but the job that was assigned to me. That became, after what happened with Grant, my sole purpose of living: to get to a point of existence where feelings not only did not matter, but didn't even exist in their entirety.

To do the job that was assigned to me.

That is why I found assassination to be so rewarding. There was no ethics involved. No one asked any questions, no one asked why I did it, there was no true moral or emotional thought involved. There was only the killings, the perverse satisfaction of watching something die, the payment, and then finally, the eventual guilt that was skillfully ignored in my quest for soulessness.

I wanted to be a cold machine. I still do. So cold that I could never hurt anyone again the way I'd hurt Grant. I wanted so desperately to save Joey from myself, but after all was said and done, I only ended up making him suffer even more.

I feel sorry, yet I hold no remorse; I feel ashamed, yet unabashed of my actions. I love him more than I think I've ever been able love anything in my life, yet I hate the way that it forces me to feel. I want to make up for lost time with my son, yet at the same time, want him gone from me as quickly as possible; separated from me like the incestuous tumor that he is. So that I can get back to not feeling, so that I can get back to trying to forget; to be independent from my past and be able to start over with a new life; a new angle; a new child. Robin.

But is Robin really just what Joey says? A replacement? A_ stunt double_?

Just another mistake down the same path I traveled down with Joey?

I can't ponder it too long because Joey's already crying again. No. It's cemented in my mind now. Joey was never like this. He never vocalized what he was feeling if he could manage to keep it inside and cherish it. His actions spoke louder than his words, while this version of my son, inhabiting Robin's body, hinges his personality upon the words he says that blatantly contradict his vulgar actions. He's obviously using Robin's sexual appeal to somehow get to my heart. Joey would never be so manipulative, would never even dream of using anything as a tool, especially something he knew nothing about. This warped Joey is not afraid to peck at me with his snide little remarks, yet at the faintest instant of disclosure, he begins crying and sobbing. Using my weakness for children as bait to lure me further into whatever it is he wants so badly. He's a manipulative little shit, and I'm not afraid to admit that so far, his plan is working smoothly.

Just because you know a strategy doesn't mean you understand how it works, how it functions, or how to overcome it.

My heart proving all the more weak and trivial, I grab the boy and hold him, stroking his hair and his face and pressing him to my chest. No matter his attitude, how different he seems, his twisted, fucked personality, he's still my son. I don't like hearing him cry. I hate it. It's a weakness, pure and simple. When Joey was still alive, I tried so hard to stay distant and cold to him- to never get close or be moved by him. I knew that I could only tarnish and damage him, and hearing him cry is like salt in my wounds. Crying means that he's in pain, and I didn't want him to end up like Grant. Never again, never again, never again..!.

"It hurts, Papa. It hurts so bad. I don't know what's happening to me. I don't want to be this way. Like you.." He sobs loud and hard, as though every sound is a needle getting stuck in his arm. He hysterically whimpers, "I don't wanna be the same as you anymore..."

Confused but not wanting to open my mouth to ask what he's babbling about, I go about fixing his robe, untying the sash and retying it around the smallness of his waist. I feel his shoulders, and touch the small of his back, just trying to calm him down. I don't want him to be this way either, a sniveling mess that can't catch a hold of himself.

"What can I do, Joey? What can I do to help you?"

He clutches at me, tugging at my black clothes and rubbing his face against the metal plate encircling my neck. He's like a frantic dog, clawing and gripping with small fingers with no nails. His fingers work up to my face, clutching the sides of it, hard, gripping me and forcing me to look down straight into his eyes, which are swollen and puffy with maddening tears. His face is screwed, Robin's once perfect features utterly decimated; his mouth curves down, wrinkling with only the consummate effort of the muscles in his face, and his teeth grit together as if he were being tortured.

He digs his fingers into the sides of my face, scratching at my hair, and I'm shocked too still to do anything about it. He's insane. But there's one more thing that I see that terrifies me even more than that.

The whites of his eyes have turned black.

A muddy color, so dark, so unnatural; the whites of his eyes are now inverted into black, his pupils are industrial-pollution-green, and his eyelids are red and puffy at the edges from crying. His teeth show like a rabid dog's as he pulls me down towards him as viciously as small hands can manage. I can practically smell him rotting just by my sense of sight.

"Love me, Papa," He gurgles through twisting lips as he tugs me down towards him, "Love me!" Nearly frozen, I can barely find the willful strength to resist his pulling and groping; his hands pull at my ears, at my hair, as he stares desperately up at me. He bites his lips over and over until they're bleeding; tugs at my uniform until it sags.

I turn my head away from him, trying to withstand the battery of his advances, putting up my hands in a futile means of non-violent resistance. I don't want to hurt him. I never want to hurt him. But Joey just ends up groping at my wrists, scratching and clawing at their metal coverings so furiously that I'm sure he filed down what little finger nails Robin had down to their bleeding cuticles.

I put down my hands in defeat, not wanting him to injure himself any further. He grabs the opportunity and scrambles back up to my face again, one hand raking itself painfully through my beard while the other struggles up my cheek bone and up to my eye patch. My eyes widen as his fingers graze the bands of it, coming to pull on them obnoxiously; I feel a twitch of pain and surprise at being touched there, especially by the boy whose life paid for the very disfigurement.

_Don't look at it!_

Somehow diverting him away before he can remove the patch, I snatch up his wandering hands, curling my fingers tightly around his struggling wrists; as gently as I possibly can, I examine his bleeding, decrepit finger nails. I forcefully take one of his hands into mine and lean down and kiss the damp surface of his sweating and bleeding hand.

Joey stares down at me with a concentrated, piercing gaze as he's shocked out of his own verbal psychosis. He breathes So do I. I don't know what he is anymore. I'm improvising. Bluffing. I make sure to keep my head down and look up at him with a strained eye. The robe I gave him has fallen slack over his slim shoulders, exposing a sweaty chest that convulses up and down as he swallows for air. His hand shakes in my grasp, tries to yank free, but I don't let go of it. I kiss it a second time, this time letting my lips caress one of his knuckles.

His lips quiver uncontrollably as his shoulders shudder with them. His mouth curves drastically into a smile, his eyebrows crooked beneath Robin's dishevelled black hair. I watch in stunned silence as he begins to chuckle to himself; low at first- covering his mouth as though he were a twittering court-lady. But his laughter soon, slowly but steadily, rises in pitch and extremity, sweat dripping from his forehead and running into his eyes, until finally his high-pitched voice reaches a crescendo of maniacal laughter.

"Joey," I say in a warning and definitely wary voice, touching his shoulder and squeezing and shaking, "Control yourself. Come now. Come on...!"

Honestly, the kid is starting to scare me. What could have possibly prompted this insanity in Joey? Is it even _him_ at _all_? I only knocked Robin out and practically _dumped_ him to find out what happened to my son, my great love... I thought that I could somehow salvage Joey; dust him off a bit, polish him up and make him as good as new, as good as he used to be.

What a fool I am.

What was I thinking? How could I be such imbecile? Even if I were to somehow 'rescue' Joey from this neurosis, _then_ what? What would happen to Robin? Would his consciousness just gradually fade away until nothing was left, or would he die off like an ill-irrigated flower?

How unfair. Robin lives for thirteen years; within those said years, his parents are murdered, he becomes a vigilante, lives with the Batman in perpetual angst, gets kidnapped by me, and then gets his body snatched away from him simply because of the unfinished business of his captor's vengeful son. What a nice life.

But I have no room to feel remorse. I picked Joey. There was a choice to make, and I made it. There could be only one chosen of two solutions, and in that moment, my feelings for Joey were stronger. If only I'd known sooner what it would have turned up like. That Joey wasn't _Joey_, but some sort of conniving spirit with nothing more to do than shove my past mistakes in my face.

No, of course not; I cannot blame myself. I did the right thing. Either way I chose, I would have ended up getting hurt. A double edged sword, either side would hurt; I simply deduced that the pain of letting Joey crawl back into obscurity would far outweigh the pain of Robin not existing. Hell, Joey was a _part _of me for ten straight years; you can't blame a man for not being able to ignore something jumping out of your body, something that had settled there and became an extension of your person? A decision had to be made, and I made it.

But was that decision even mine to make in the first place?

And in making that choice and choosing Joey, did I inadvertently _kill_ Robin?

It sinks in so _painfully_ with a sort of _finality_ that I wish did not_ exist_.

_I might have killed Robin._

And then I realize with extreme nausea that I've made the same mistake _twice! _Twice over have I taken a young lover, and I've somehow been doubly responsible for the stealing of their innocence and their eventual ruin.

Can I live with that on my _conscience_? I've blamed myself for Joey's demise for years, his passing haunting me so completely, sitting so very still in my mind (and body) that even when sleeping, when normal consciousness leaves and the body takes over, he invaded my dreams and nightmares. He resided in my every act, my every thought, my every word. When he died, it was as though any and all decency had been torn away from me, and all that remained was a shell of a man; the coldness of a machine.

How will I possibly be able to live with myself if Robin shares the same fate that _Joey_ did?

But what do I _do_? Does throwing away the present make sense if you're trying to revitalize the past? Is it fair to throw away the current when the old already had its chance? Is Robin for Joey an equivalent exchange in _any_ sense?

I look over at Joey inside Robin's body in deep contemplation. He's slowly gaining back his composure, his laughter gradually reducing down to a low chuckle, and finally to a stop. He breathes hard, throat probably hurting, and places his hand warily against his forehead. He shifts his other hand raggedly through the flagging curls in Robin's hair, pulling at them in lamenting self-battery.

"Are you..." I murmur, trying to get past the last emotional explosion as well as I may, "... alright?"

He splays his fingers across his face so that I can only see slits of his green eyes in the negative spaces of his hands and answers after a long, broodish silence, "... yes, Papa." His voice is darker and lower, almost reaching Robin-level gruffness.

He sighs deeply and loudly, abruptly collapsing against my chest in fatigue. My arms convulse in surprise, and hesitate for a long time at wrapping around and hugging him. Like I don't want to give him any false comfort; feigned sympathy.

And I stare down at him, and I wonder how I could have possibly been fooled so easily by this... thing? I see now that there is nothing attractive about this creature; nothing good, nothing solid, nothing even _real_. Everything about him is fake and exaggerated to the point of_ exasperation_. I know now that it was his association with Joey that made me want to know him; made me want to hope and believe that I could do something to redeem myself; to fix the mistakes that I made with him in the past. I thought that I had somehow miraculously found a way to go back in time and redo everything, to apologize, and things would be ok. But things are never so simple, and Robin may have been lost in the process.

I clung to the image of shy, beautiful, innocent Joey, that I could not even get past the monster he'd grown into.

And I realize vaguely, in a spark of recognition, that _that_ is the reason why Wintergreen left; he had the same epiphany about me that I'm having about Joey. He was so attached to the younger me, the bright eyed-bushy-tailed me of my younger days, the me of the distant past, that he had subconsciously blinded himself to what I'd become. He was loyal to me to the very end, but in reality, his loyalty stemmed from a love of a completely different, _alternative_ me. The me that existed in his mind but wasn't truly _alive_ anymore.

He found that I wasn't the person he'd thought I was anymore. He found this with his own power, and sought to correct it. When his eyes were finally exposed to the truth, he escaped, as he deserved to.

_the past is the past and should be kept sacred from the present..._

Then I'll honor Wintergreen's path and follow him in his decision. Strange how even when he leaves me, the old man is still talking as my conscience...

Joey's body sags against me, his lips brushing against my chest, tiredly kissing and rubbing his cheek against the patch of grey hair that stems from it. I stroke his hair in silence and contemplate what to say and how to say it in the best way to avoid another emotional outburst like the last one.

"Joey..." I ask, "..Where's Robin?"

He gets suspicious in an instant, like I knew he would.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, where _is_ he? What happens to him if you're.."

"He's in here with me. He doesn't know it, of course. He's taking a nap. The most this will ever be to him is a sweet dream." Joey sighs, nuzzling even closer to me. I blatantly don't return the favor. Still, I let out a sigh of relief, glad to know that Robin is still somehow intact.

"Yes," continues Joey in a day-dreaming voice, "I'll let him sleep forever and never wake up... "

My mind piques with alarm, but I don't let it show through my perfectly practiced poker face. Inquiring, "Is that true, Joey?"

"Of course, Papa." He says, now fingering the rough hair on my chest and curling it absent-mindedly, "You thought this was just a nice little visit? A vacation for me? I like this body. I'm going to keep it so I can be with you forever. And since you chose me, that'll happen, right?" Then his eyes open sharply, and he yanks semi-roughly on the chest hair in his hand and says in a crucifying voice,

I lick my lips for a moment, stay silent and contemplative, reviewing over and over what I should say.

But nothing comes out but the simplest yet most effective answer.

"... ... ...No. No, Joey."

I'd do anything to undo the past, Joey. But not this.

Joey doesn't even move.

Doesn't even act like he heard it. He probably didn't allow himself to.

I watch as his gaze slowly turns up to mine in a piercing gaze, his eyes jittering so much that I can practically see every molecule that makes them up. Everything inside of him is crumbling apart. His mouth turns from a straight line, to a frown, to a straight line again, to biting his lip, and then finally to a crooked, bitter smile as he cocks his head to the side like a dog when you call out its name.

"...What?"

With determination, I meet his gaze directly for the first time with an equally, if not more so, intense one.

"I said no. It won't happen the way you want it to."

An rancorous sort of laughter forces its way out of Joey's mouth, but his eyes are not smiling. Quite the contrary, it looks like I've finally penetrated that psychological barrier that was so effectively protected with forced innocence and hypocritical chastity.

Suddenly his laughter stops instantaneously, and a hand is striking out to hit me. I'm almost caught off guard, but I grab him just in time to keep him from connecting with my face. Not that it would have hurt even if he did, but I don't want Joey to hit me. Seizing the opportunity to put the situation back in my favor and having him fully in my grip, I twist his wrist, briefly snapping the bones. He yelps, and I wrestle all of his limbs into submission as he frantically struggles, and I waste no time in pinning him underneath me. I quickly pull his arms up above his head, locking them in place and rendering them immobile. He snarls and begins thrashing his legs, pale flesh slipping and sliding against the metal coverings of my thighs and knees.

"Raghh!" Cries out Joey, slamming around his wrists as though my hands were petty metal shackles, "Let me go!"

My eyes narrow at him, curling my lip as I look down on the shaking, quivering mass below me, "You said you wanted me to love you. If that's what you want, it's what you'll get."

"Naugh!" Yells Joey again as he thrashes and carries on, every single one of his limbs putting up its own berserkish struggle. Screaming at the top of his lungs, "I hate you! Look what you did to me! Look!"

Despite his words, he thrusts up his hips into mine, spreading his legs abnormally far apart and bucking his entire lower frame up and down, up into me.

I stare down at him. Despite _his_ frantic mental state, _I_ feel oddly at peace. Almost serene, you could say. Perhaps because I've finally managed to seize control again? Or maybe because I finally know this thing's true color? He's practically foaming at the mouth, his brain nothing more than a milky, wet sponge in his skull. All common sense it utterly gone. His face is crooked and sweaty and screwed up tight and rigid while his black and green eyes bore intense firey holes into every part of my face. His flat chest is nearly slippery with sweat at his furious contortions, and his boyhood, oddly half-erect, plays peek-aboo beneath the cloth of his half-open, half-on robe.

"I'm looking." I answer calmly, as though the look of him doesn't phase me one bit.

Joey starts to hiss and cry again, his face contorting with the strain of it. I lean down into him, laying ontop of him and squeezing his captured wrists in my hand. I grip them hard, nearly crushing bones and tendons, and listen to his yelp. Watch his fingers curl and uncurl in agony. His knee connects with my side, but it's the flutter of a bird's wing compared to the pain I'm distributing to his wrists. I gaze down at the ferral thing below me, gasping for air and muttering things I can't hear. I stare down past my grey patch of bangs that obscure my vision, and come to a conclusion.

It's time to stop fooling myself.

This isn't the Joey I loved. I know that now. He's gone for good. Dead. He died the day his throat was cleanly sliced right in front of me. He died in a filthy warehouse far away from home. He died when I watched his casket lowered into the ground. The boy I loved so desperately, enough to stifle all attention and affection in order to keep that simple truth a secret, has been dead all along.

He's not Joey. He's not Robin. So who is he?

I have a guess, but I don't think I'll like the answer.

I lean down to kiss him, using my free hand to yank his chin forward. He stops grinding himself up against me long enough to slap his hand over my mouth just as its about to reach his face. I hear the clap of skin against skin, feel the sting of his nails in the side of my face, smearing it with red. I flinch, and it hurts, but I'm sure my weight and the broken wrists are hurting him much more.

"Don't..." He hisses quietly, turning away, "...y-y-you ruined me..!" I move his hand away, and strangely, meet little resistance in doing so. In fact, his hand is practically limp, as though it could only put up a fight for oh-so long. Is his control of the body getting weaker?

Almost as an after thought, he jerkingly knees me in the stomach. Seeing as how the stomach of my uniform is covered with a semi-malleable metal, it hurts him far more than it would have ever hurt me.

He twists and turns like he's having a panic attack and starts _screaming_ in an uncomprehensible slur of anger, "You killed me! You let me die! I _hate_ you more than _anything_! You're disgusting!"

As an appropriate action to perfectly punctuate his hate, his leg strikes up to savagely kick between my legs. Shifting one of my legs up like a dog taking a piss, I grab the limb before it can have the chance to administer harm. He tries to move it, flexing Robin's muscles in the leg, but I'm far stronger than Robin could ever be, let alone someone inexperienced in his body.

"That wasn't very nice." I sigh to him, feeling the power trip of once again being in control. Reducing the boy to a helpless wreck is satisfying in itself, of course.. and I don't really blame him. He's still got the mind of a child. A twisted one, but childish none the less. I'm sure he had a lot of fun baiting me and berrading me, humiliating me and shoving my mistakes in my face. I'm sure it made him feel real good. Not for long.

He going to regret messing with me.

With half-lidded eyes, I gaze down almost contemptuously at the leg that I've captured. My hand almost double-encircling the ankle I hold so tightly. Regarding it coldly, I make my hand as rigid and stony as I possibly can before _twisting_ with one quick snap. I hear it crack, hear the bones shift away from eachother; then feel them touch, scrape together, fumbling within skin, conjuncting, and I hear Joey scream "Papa!" at the top of his lungs.

shapeshifting, his expression flips almost automatically from fury to sorrow and sobbing. He's crying. But these aren't the feigned, whimpery, willowy kind of tears he's been utilizing this whole time. Now they're real; they're thick; the kind that hurt on the way out and burn your throat like coals in hell: hot and warm, streaming down his face and down his chin and turning his cheeks pink.

The whites of his eyes have since turned from black to a greyish-green, as though the color of his irises is staining the color of his whites. Reminds me of the sort of eyes Tamaraneans have, without the glowing part. Nor the beauty.

His fingers claw at the bed, biting his lip tightly. I cast his leg down back onto the bed, watch it bounce, and from its limpness, I can tell I broke the bones effectively. He won't be moving it for a while.

But just to make sure that little stunt doesn't happen again...

My expression still cold and almost numb, I take his other leg up into my hand the same as the last one and brace my hand hard again. Joey, impossibly becoming even more wide-eyed and more frantic, tears up the sheets around him and twists his torso away in a troubled effort to wrench away from the inevitable. Predictably he fails, and with bruising swiftness, I crush the second ankle. He screams, his torso jerking, shoving his face into the sheets; yet now, his legs are oddly unmoving and seemingly dead.

But his effort of trying to escape did pay off, in a way; the second ankle wasn't broken, just twisted. Despite that, a nice set of bruises, deep blue and slightly red at the edges, have started to form where once-nicely assembled bones once set. I take a time-out to remove my gloves and then to drop them on the floor. Then to lean down with fleshed hands to touch and rub his feet, Robin's feet, almost imagining that it's Robin crying hysterically in the sheets as I touch him.

Can't help getting stiff at the thought.

But then Joey's face is up and his green-grey eyes are staring me in the face with ugly smears of fatigue and sweat and tears and blood all over him. "Why are you doing this?" Whines he, his voice cracking like a scuffed compact disc.

I turn up my upper lip in an innocent fashion, mimicking the same kind of face Joey used to cripple me so frequently, "I'm only doing what you told me to."

His eyebrows skew in hateful contempt at me, but it seems that I've effectively rendered him speechless.

I grab both of his legs at once, simultaneously yanking them upwards and spreading them as humiliatingly far apart as possible.

His eyes turn the color of utter _horror_, and wriggles and cries and yells and screams, because it's all he can _do_. His wrists and ankles all are fractured, crushed beyond repair, or badly injured. Effectively helpless.

"Please don't!" Yells Joey, sitting up on his elbows the best he can in the compromising position I've put him in, and he whimpers pitifully with a squeeking, girly voice, "Why are you doing this..," He repeats, "I didn't do anything wrong...!"

I lean in close to him, enough so he can get a clear view of my face and see how in control I am of him. "Because the last time I was about to have a good fuck, you interrupted. That was rather _rude_, so I'm going to return the _favor_."

Joey stares at me with wide eyes, evident fear so clearly visible that it looks tangible and real to me. Looks like he could have seen a ghost.

Well, now he knows how it_ feels_.

Decisively, I maneuver one of his legs to rest on my shoulders to free one of my hands. I use it to unzip myself, shifting my half-ready cock fully out from my pants and jock. I stroke it gently, squeezing and fingering myself, and making sure that Joey is watching me with his saucer eyes. Then I lean into him, invading his personal space and getting right up into his face. I get closer and closer until I'm finally close enough to lick some of the tears off of his face; I press my cheek against his before flexing my tongue against the soft, moist skin and tasting the salt pouring out of his eye sockets. He tries to move away, but I only follow him every which way his face tries to flee.

I stop licking him a moment to simply talk in his face to him in a mocking tone, my enjoyment of this clear in my voice;

"How _interesting!_ How incredibly _hypocritical_! It seemed like not long ago that you were _estatic_ at the chance to suck me off; but now that you don't have any power over me, you don't want this, do you? I'd say that _that _is a little unfair to _me_. Beggars can't be choosers, Joey, and you're going to get what you begged for."

Joey doesn't say anything, only stares at me, flabbergasted at what's happening with a mortal fear super-glued to every single atom of his face.

Letting go of myself for a minute, I reach down to roll up the bottom of his half-falling off robe. Then, deciding it will be easier to get the whole thing out of the way, I place both of his legs on my shoulders and busy myself with untying the soft, cotton belt and slipping the robe off.

I smile at the sight of Robin's naked body again when it is finally fully exposed and the robe discarded from the bed; all of its entirety toned, skinny, pale, entertaining little to no hair to speak of. Pink nipples delicate on a flat chest, right above his stomache, which was steadily growing more muscled the less he ate and the more he trained. His spread, skim-milk thighs give me a bird's eye view of his sex, cute, at least to me, in its dimunitive maturity.

I reach down, pressing my hand against the tautness of Robin's stomach, trailing a finger down to rest at his navel before sweeping the entire way down to tease at his entrance. I press against it and feel it concurrently quiver at being touched. My god, he _quivered_... The sensitivity is enough to drive me insane. I grasp at the rare opportunity to both explore Robin and abuse Joey, fingering against him a little bit more, a little bit harder; using my thumb and penetrating only the slightest bit. Raking my nail against the shaking softness of his insides, scratching at him gently.

Joey moans, thrusting his head backwards; even though his legs can't move, I can tell by their shaking that they want awfully badly to close.

But he can't do anything but moan and groan and sigh unhappily.

"I'll tell you a secret; all those years we lived together with your mother and Wintergreen, I wasn't cold to you because I wanted to be. I was an unfeeling bastard because all that time, I was an assassin and killing people for a living. I didn't want to get hurt when I knew that you or someone close was going to be held for hostage or for ransom; it was inevitable."

"I let you die, Joey. It was no mistake. I let you die because you brought me down."

"Please stop... you're making it all up...!" He shuts his eyes and twists and turns his head back and forth; his voice has been reduced to a pitiful, puppy-like gurgle, sounding as if he'd been run over three or ten times.

I smile down at him sweetly, "Funny. You actually believed I was something so great A man. A god. But I'm nothing like that. I was all a fake. I'm nothing but what you see before you, and that scares you, doesn't it? Back then, you never knew I was a fraud; that I go weak in the knees for little boys and blood. I'm nothing but a monster."

Joey just cries. His fingers twitch below unmovable hands, toes curl beneath crushed ankles, muscles flex behind stony joints. I stare down at him; his eyes are shut tight and his face is a greasy trap of slobberish tears. He's no longer in control of me. His spirit, after being attached to my body for so long, feels separated; it's almost as thought I can see with far more clarity now. The blinds over the eyes are gone, and now I can examine him objectively. And when my blind eyes finally glimpse light, what do they see?

A scared little boy.

Cowaring, afraid, lonely, utterly defeated by me.

I feel a prick of pity and sympathy for the shuddering, naked boy beneath me. Suddenly Robin's legs resting on my shoulders become far too heavy a burden. So I shift them off. Joey looks at me in careful confusion, regarding me with the disdainful yet fearful eyes of a schoolboy right after being paddled. I look into his eyes and lay his stiff legs down on the bed with new caution to the injuries I just inflicted.

"Joey," I say in proposition, "This game has been fun and all, but it's been enough. The sedative I injected into Robin will wear off soon. You've demonstrated that you're used to Robin's body by now; I'm sure you could rival his consciousness now, if you tried. But you won't be able to take control of his body unless he's knocked out or asleep. Am I correct?"

I try to ignore the hard-on that just won't go away as I speak calmly and carefully to the kid I was just screaming at and breaking bones with.

Joey's quiet for a while, looking up at me with deer-eyes, and then nods slowly. I'm rather relieved that I was right.

"Then we can settle this one of two ways. The first way is that you can leave right now and save what little of your dignity is left. The second, and far more enjoyable for me, is that I can fuck you before Robin wakes up."

"-Dont," He says suddenly, "..Don't. I can't... I don't want that anymore. I never wanted that..."

We both don't say anything. I wonder what he means by that.

"Can you do me a favor, though?"

"Anything."

"Will you lay down with me?"

I feel a bit of my throat swell up.

"Will you be close to me?"

I stare into his eyes. His whites are white again. Calm. The greens of his eyes look much brighter, like emeralds. Just a little bit dustier. Just a little bit older.

I nod yes; the first thing I do is make myself decent again, despite how annoyingly stiff I still am. Then I shift and lean down over the edge of the bed to retrieve his wrinkled robe, then cover Joey's lying body with it. Then, with a bit of hesitation, I lie down next to him on my side. He closes his eyes and sighs. Not paying attention to me, but in his own little world.

I'm surprised when I'm the one who reaches over to hold his hand. "Joey?"

He doesn't answer at first. He breathes deeply and talkes slowly, "Hold me, Papa."

I do what he says, shifting towards him and wrapping my arms around Robin's body. I feel no more hatred for him as I did earlier. Just a big, empty hole of pain. A feeling of finality.

His body is rigid, but his face nuzzles the steel armor plating on my neck. He sighs again and starts to talk sluggishly, ".. Papa... all those years ago... I think this is all I wanted. All I wanted to know was that you cared. Do you think that if you'd hugged me more often... I would have turned out differently? Do you think we would have turned at differently..?"

I don't answer. I just concentrate on his words, trying my best to understand them.

"I think so too... I think everyone should hug their kids more often. It's the natural thing to do. I think that if we'd been closer... if we would have known eachother as people... I think... I built you up so high.. that I didn't realize you were a person with flaws and mistakes... I think sex was only a quick solution... to my problem..."

I hug him tighter and I don't let go.

"Papa... please... don't let any other kids end up like me... please... that's all I want from you. That's all I want."

He smiles and a tear drops down his cheek.

I feel my gut wrench. I know what boy in particular he's talking about.

"I promise." I urgently reassure him.

He smiles wider. "Good..."

I stroke his hair and pull him closer, burrying my face against his forehead, which is damp with sweat.

"I loved you, Joey."

The romantic way.

"I loved you too, Papa."

The platonic way.

I shudder a bit and smell Robin's hair and that's all we have to say to each other. We're quiet for a long time, just touching, feeling, holding, knowing. It reminds me of the time, ten years ago, when I laid him down in the den... under the wrinkled sheets... the alarm clock's red numbers resting on the floor and mocking me... I remember never wanting that night to end. I remember everything _about_ him; the way he walked, the way he talked; the way his hair smelt and felt, soft and blonde and smelling of cinnamon. I remember his green eyes that looked so much like Adeline's. I remember the way he moaned when we made love, and the way he smiled all the time when I was near. I miss him. I miss him so much.

"Give me a goodnight kiss, Papa."

A memory.

"_Papa?"_

_"Joseph. Give me a goodnight kiss."_

My heart starts to ache, but I push it aside to do what he says, for his sake. I squeeze him tighter and move to kiss his lips. His are chapped, swelled and bitten. There's no lingering. No tongue. No sexuality. The strictest peck, the deftest touch. The basic.

But Joey deserves it. At least, after all that, he deserves this. And he looks like he likes it.

"Thank you, Papa. That felt good."

I don't say anything. I just continue stroking his hair and savoring the melancholy twinge in my stomach. I can feel his body going limp with the gradual leaving of his personality from the body. I don't know if I should be feeling good or bad; happy or sad. I don't know anything.

We're both quiet for at least five more minutes. I feel the minutes ticking by, and I can't tell if I want them to go slower or faster.

Inevitably, "... ... ... I'm leaving now, Papa. Goodnight." He squeezes my hand, and although his face looks pained, fearful, it also holds a brave sort of nobleness that I know we'll never share.

"Goodnight, Joey."

An after thought.

"-... Goodnight, Son."

This brings a big smile to Joey's face. He likes that, too.

He closes his eyes. He shifts a little, getting comfortable. One minute I can feel his prescence, and then he's gone. Without a trace left of him left. It's all so sudden that the emotions don't even have time to wash over me. I have no tears left. I have nothing to feel. I'm spent.

Joey, even though your love for me may not have been the love we both wanted it to be... I know in my heart that mine was. I don't know if I can ever care for someone as much as I cared for you.

And I will _never_ forget you.

I'll _never_ try to replace you again.

I made a promise.

Fin... (to be continued...)

Yeah so, sorry with the delay in getting this chapter out. This was a really slow chapter for me, in that nothing truly happened but Slade and Joey going through the motions of their relationship. There was deceit, realization, hatred, fighting, resolution, and finally at the very end, acceptance. The ending of the chapter wasn't overly dramatic; there wasn't buckets of tears to be shed between lovers, because really, Slade and Joey are like a divorced couple. They've finally seen each other for what they both are.

So, what was Rwyn' di garu di all about? This story line has been culminating since chapter six when the first Joey flashback occurred, so it's been building and building into this monstrous backstory; obviously, Joey's presence in Slade's life will continue to effect him, and the happenings in this three-parter story arc will continue to effect the fic immensely, especially in Slade's case.

I think much of this particular chapter was about the difference between the past and the present. Joey was upset because he felt that Slade had forgotten him, and had tried to replace him with Robin. But the truth was that all along, Slade was living in the past, looking for Joey in a life that was supposed to have moved on without him. So is Robin simply a stand-in for the real thing? Can Slade move past Joey and see Robin with new clarity? These are things that will be explored in the next few chapters.

And you can bet that Robin will be ill-effected by Joey's presence as well. You'll see the effects of this in the next chapter, when Robin and Slade's relationship is forever changed.

The next chapter will have the return of Robin and his POV! Thank god. Slade is a tricky bastard to write.

If you have any questions or comments, please write a review; plus, if you want a direct answer, feel free to post in my forum. Thanks a lot for reading and being patient and awesome! Hope you digged this chapter.


	16. Point of View

The Bird and His Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Disclaimer: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material possessions. I like my material possessions...

Notes: Loha! No, I'm not _dead_... psht...Well, Robin's POV is back and in this first part, he takes a little trippy adventure inside his mind. Or in someone else's mind? I guess you could call this a bonus chapter, as I wasn't going to include it at first. It really connects with the content of the last several chapters and I think it's a good addition. This is basically what is happening to Robin's mind while Joey was inside his body. Sorry if it's not the follow-up you expected.

Telling me what you think in a review would be wonderful, and thank you so much for reading!

_Robin's POV_

Where am I?

It's so dark. Definitely not inside of your eyelids kind of dark; just a void with just nothing _in _it. It's not hot or cold, or even _neutral_; it's nothing. I feel nothing, hear nothing, see nothing... It's like my five senses have vanished and have been replaced with nothing more than a sinking pit of numb grey matter that's swallowed me up; like when you're trapped within a nightmare. You're persued by whatever it is that frightened you, but your legs _won't_ _move_. You're just caught sitting there, dumb with fear, your body uncooperating in a drunken stupor of sleep and unwakefulness. Your brain screaming and racing faster than light, doing laps around the moon, while your body feels like it's been ductaped, super-glued and stapled to where you stand. That familiar sluggish feeling, like trying to walk a straight line wearing beer goggles after just getting off the merry-go-round.

But with the loss of physical being, it seems that my thoughts have gained so much form that I can almost _see _them, feverish and hysterical, bullying eachother for my attention.

Where am I? What's going on? Why can't I see? Why can't I feel my body? Oh, _god_- I can't feel my body! My body! Where'd it go? Where am I?

Panic seizures into my mind, rupturing and making short work of the calm composure I try so desperately to hang on to. Soon the anxiety becomes too much for me and begins to tease my make believe stomach, making me feel nauseus.. My whole world begins to rock back and forth like a plastic tugboat in a baby's bath water, and I swear that if I had a stomach I would hold it; if I had a mouth I'd cup it to keep myself from vomiting; what I wouldn't give for a wall to lean on to steady my balance. I keep wanting to blink my eyes, to bend my fingers, to curl my toes, and am startled every other second only to find that there's just _nothing there_ _anymore_.

Trapped. Trapped like a man buried alive and nailed tight into his coffin.

I try my best to feel _something_, move _something_, but nothing happens; no flesh to touch with, no nerves to interact with... just a static at the end of every limb that strangely tingles. I can't make anything work, like all the connections to my body have been severed; a plug-in robot with no electrical socket to connect with. But is there even a body _there_? What if there isn't?

Is this what it's like to be dead?

Just a brain with nothing attached?

I'm alone!

Where's Slade? Where's Dad? Where's Bruce? Alfred, Wintergreen.. Starfire, Cyborg- Raven, Beast Boy- Anybody!

Nobody can help me. Nobody's here with me..

I feel like sobbing in utter despair, helpless and hopeless and near hysteria. I don't even have hands enough to end my suffering; but killing myself would be better than sitting in this void, never to see the light of another day again. Anything would be better than this. This motionless hell that is stuck on pause for all eternity…!

I'm alone, floating, forever as nothing but a stagnant consciousness!

There's _nothing! I'm nothing!_

Suddenly a ringing sound fills my ears and restores my hearing; steadily growing louder. I'm shocked to feel another presence in this hell-hole, another consciousness alongside my own. A flash of light brings back my eyes, almost to my regret, the light flashing so brightly that it threatens to blind me all over again. A gentle hand, feeling both bigger and smaller than my own at the same time, finds me and pulls me forward, hiking me up to my supposed feet. Along with the light I've also regained the sight of my own body, or what looks like it; I'm nude; naked, now that I can see myself, and oddly, I'm not surprised by it in the least.

The light refracts in my eyes as I go in, creating dancing colors that seize and palpitate, exploding in all directions and making me dizzy and nervous again. I try to struggle against the now two hands that hold me, but I can't make my own body move; seeing my body but not being able to move it, only feeling a dull numbness, creates a nightmarish fear that makes me feel like screaming if I could. The fact that I can't only makes me more terrified, the feeling almost becoming so palpable; my throat clenches so hard that I'm not surprised when I see that the hands that were just holding mine and guiding me into the light were wrapped around my neck. For a moment I think I see my father's face.

And then I'm swept into the light and the ringing stops.

And for some reason, I smell cinnamon.

Grass. I see grass. Blurred everything, but grass none the less. Thank god, something real! It's green and overgrown and I can smell it, too. I look down and see my legs. I'm wearing clothes now. Sitting down. I feel my nerves are returning, gradually; feeling. It's _hot_. Like a heatwave; I don't care if it's uncomfortable; I'm just relieved that I'm _real _again; I'm alive!

And movement. I can move! I flex my arms, but I find that they feel weird. Foreign. My eyebrows skew in confusion as I cautiously lift up one of my hands to examine it. It looks small. Smaller than usual, I mean. Not as pale as mine are, slightly colored in a younger way; they look like the hands of someone who's never participated in manual labor in their entire lives.

More panic.

What the hell is this?

I look down at my legs again. They're wearing shorts- khaki shorts that show pale legs and smooth knees; knees that have never been scraped or scuffled or burned. I lift up one of my legs and examine its navy blue socks and black clog shoes, knowing fully well that I've rarely ever worn such things in my life.

Who am I?

My vision, once dampened, has almost regained complete clarity. And I realize _why_ it was blurry in the first place:

Bangs. Blonde ones curling in front of my face.

_Since when do I have blonde hair?_

More and more panic worries a sensitive stomach. I reach up and try to push them out of my sight, but they just fall back to their natural place; I touch my face, grope at my facial features, my nose, my lips, and realize with stunned revelation that they're not the ones I'm used to.

"-Can I see your drawing?" A voice startles me out of my daze. For the first time, I realize that I'm sitting inside a jeep; not one I'm familiar with, but that I feel I should be. I'm in a freakishly hot, grassy field that stretches on for what looks like forever, with small deposits of forests sporadic in the distance. I notice that the trees are the kind that are native to Africa. I also notice for the first time that we're not the only jeep parked in the grass; there are dozens of them, somewhat crowded around the one I'm sitting in, as though it were pack-leader of its herd of loyal vehicles.

I look up to the voice I heard and am shocked by what I see; I recognize this man as Wintergreen, Slade's right hand man that I met in the first weeks I was living at the compound. I remember his kindness and the breakfasts that he prepared for me, but... something about him is different. The Wintergreen _I_ met, not unsimilar to myself, was broken in; broken by the world and broken by Slade. He was still good in his core, but more like a zombie than anything else. A drone with a shackled personality.

But this man is different; he's happy. Content. He sits up straight and the wrinkles are not yet indented into his skin; only soft, gentle smile lines permeate his face, the sort that remind me of Slade's. His hair is just beginning to recede, and it's a deeper color than what I knew he had, almost a granite-like black color.

Is this a younger version of the Wintergreen I once knew..?

He must notice me staring at him like he has several heads, because he smiles and cocks his head to the side a bit. "What's wrong?"

Still staring, I shake my head vacantly; Not really knowing what I'm doing and acting on pure instinct, I pat my hand against the hard interior of the jeep's seats and grope about before I come to find a sketch book set next to my hip. But how did I know it was there? I grab it with shaking fingers and hand it to my apparent close acquaintance without even looking at it myself.

It's so weird; somehow, I feel like I should hold far more emotion than I already do for this man; like I have far more reason than I know of it be closer, to be more comfortable with this man. Like someone with amnesia, not remembering the ones they love, but having a gut _feeling _that something resides just below the surface...

Wintergreen takes it in his hands and inspects it for a long time. I can't tell whether or not his enthusiasm for it is feigned or genuine, but he definitely thinks it worthy of a long, hard, thoughtful look. A gust of wind blows his dark hair and my own bleach-colored hair and ruffles the pages of the sketchbook in Wintergreen's hands, but he keeps it steady.

"That's very good, Joseph," says Wintergreen, handing it back, "Are you going to keep it or let it go?"

Confused, I look up at him with a puzzled expression. Then I glance down at the sketchbook in my hands and try to decipher the work on the page. I'm surprised by the talent of the artist, the apparent talent of myself: talent I know I don't have, and a drawing that I don't remember drawing. It's of a butterfly, rendered in deep, rich charcoal, the lines drawn hard and sketched, but all artfully placed with an artist's precision.

I look down to Wintergreen's side of the floor of the jeep and realize that there is a terrarium sitting at his feet; the expensive kind, made of glass with a metal lid. There's a layer of grass at the bottom and two choice branches, and perching on one of them is the assumed model of the sketch; a deep blue exotic butterfly speckled with black. It flutters about restlessly in its well-furnished habitat, frustrated at being caged.

"...-I'll let it go." I speak for the first time, and I'm startled by the lightness of my voice. Not the boy-Clint Eastwood-like tone that I know is my own, but light and airy and sweet-sounding like a girls. Am I girl? I try to nonchalantly nudge my chest with my arm to feel for breasts, but there are none. Then I notice, feeling completely stupid, what's between my legs, and I know that I'm a little boy.

Younger Wintergreen smiles and pats my head, and I get a fuzzy oozing, father-loves-me kind of feeling that I know I shouldn't be getting from someone I'd only met two or three times. But I bask in it none the less and smile back as well. To keep up the charade and to seem natural and calm, I pick up the sketch and a nearby piece of charcoal from the floor of the vehicle and start pretending to add things to the sketch. I act conserved, but my brain is going crazy with questions and errors. Where am I? Who am I? Am I even me anymore?

Reasoning with myself, I look past the metal ringlets of the sketchbook in front of my face and gaze at the scenery. Like I said before, the grass is tall and wild, and in the distance I can see several patches of jungle; I recognize the vegetation as African. I know this because...

.. because Bruce and I went to Africa when I was still.. when I was... still good a good guy..

I glance at the jeeps all around and notice that most of them have hunting equipment inside them like guns and ammo boxes and first aid kits and nets. Behind the jeep herd some yards away is a group of tents set up in the grass.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead, pushing away the wavy hair like a curtain. So I'm in Africa with a bunch of hunters? And well-to-do hunters at the very least; their jeeps are spotless, the most current and expensive models, and their guns, at least the ones left in their cars, are powerful and up to date versions.

Wintergreen meanwhile has turned around to the backside of the car and has taken out a large pitcher of lemonade. He's just about to pour it into an expensive crystal glass when he lifts his head up to attention and calls, "Master Wilson!"

I turn around to look and see a figure running towards us from the nearest brush of forest. The closer the figure gets, the more details I can make out; he's wearing all brown, holding a rifle in one strong hand, with a strap of bullets pressed against his chest and going up his left shoulder. He's got a sword's empty scabbard strapped to his back as well as a knife strapped to his right leg and a pistol belt strapped to his left. His dirty, muddy army boots trample the grass, and he's wearing dark brown gloves that look like factory-worker gloves.

He runs at incredible speed, like an Olympic athlete. Even _I'm_ impressed, even after all of Slade's speed and agility training. Is he a regular human?

In a short time he gets across the grass field and to the convoy of jeeps; he walks around them to get to ours, maneuvering around the vehicles. Unnervingly, his face is always obscured by a window or is behind a car's frame.

Finally when he's within my sight, he collapses to his knees in front of our jeep, his face burried in the grass. His shoulders shake with fatigue, and he takes in deep, painful-sounding breaths. The man's got a muscled physique; not super-hero buffed-up kind, but athletic in a way. His hair is golden, cut short and bedraggled, stuck to his forehead and the side of his face with sweat.

Wintergreen takes his glass of lemonade, originally intended for himself, and gets up from the car and brings the glass to the crouching, exhausted man in the grass. He offers it to him, and the man in the grass lifts his head, a thankful expression on his face as they speak words I can't really hear.

I turn to see his face and and the minute I lay my eyes on him, I'm struck dumb on the spot.

_--Slade!_

I throw down the notebook in reflex disbelief and stare intensely at what could only be a doppelganger of my beloved master; the face is the same, there's no doubt; the same cold eyes, but, the more I look, _warmer_-looking than _I've_ ever seen them before. He's the same Slade, except, in a way, completely _different! _The lines in his face aren't there; the aura of callousness, of underlying disdain, doesn't exist yet; he almost looks _nice_. Kind, liike a father should. This Slade has color in his face; color in his hair, his eyes; color in everything about him.

But this Slade has no eyepatch; in fact, his eyes are perfectly symmetrical. His grey goatee that I've strangely become overly fond of is nothing but a small patch of golden fuzz on his chin; his hair isn't the dead, scraggly mess of long grey bramble all over his head and in front of his face like I'm used to seeing, but instead, blonde, short, and slightly curled at the ends in an almost comical fashion. But why did Wintergreen call him 'Master Wilson'?

Like Wintergreen, this Slade also looks younger, gentler. Am I in some kind of distant past, or has the vibrancy simply been turned up a few notches on my television set? I honestly _feel_ like I'm in a television show; like I am acting in place for a character in the cast that couldn't make it. An understudy. The replacement?

Younger Slade wipes his mouth clean once he's done drinking, sighing heavily. He then grabs the hand that Wintergreen has concurrently outstretched for him, and is hoisted up to his feet by his friend; a feat the Wintergreen I knew would never have been able to accomplish. Wintergreen wraps one of Slade's arms around his shoulders and guides the staggering man towards the jeep, where I sit stunned and amazed and almost frightened by the Twilight Zone-esque events that are going on around me.

"It isn't good for you to exert yourself like that. Remember last week?" His voice is stern and reprimanding, sounding frustrated with Slade like a father would when he finds out his boy got in a schoolyard fight.

Slade bobs his head up and down in forelorn agreement as they come to the jeep; Wintergreen helps Slade sit down, in the spot he himself had been sitting moments ago. Slade expels a powerful, breathless sigh the minute he collapses once again to sitting; he sits with his head leaning back, his arms limp at his sides, and his legs spread flaggedly apart. He's sweating terribly, down his face and staining his shirt from the inside out. My eyes fixated on him, I see his adam's apple move up and down at a mad pace as he gasps desperately for air. If I didn't know better, I'd think he were choking. His lids are shut, possibly because his tired, maybe because he's in pain, as he eventually lets the rifle slip from his hands and land with a cracking thud on the ground.

Wintergreen, meanwhile in the back compartment, takes the jug of lemonade from the front seat and puts it back into the cooler at the rear of the car. His composure is calm, but I can see his hands shaking with anxiety as he reaches into the back of the car for something else; like a soon-to-be-father going through the motions of getting an expectant mother to the hospital, his movements are deft and quick, like he's practiced this many times over.

I just watch with wide eyes, frightened and somewhat fascinated, as Wintergreen hurredly takes out a red velvet case, jumps from the back of the jeep to run to Slade's side, and opens the case with shaking fingers. I peer over from my side of the jeep and see that inside is a syringe with copper- almost orange- colored fluid inside. His medicine?

Why would Slade need medicine?

Wintergreen takes a cord from his pocket and quickly ties it around Slade's arm, pulling tight, until a vein shows. Slade's groans loudly at this, his free hand grabbing at Wintergreen's wrist and trying to pull it away. "Don't..!" He gasps out from clenched teeth, gurggling out the word like he were under water.

"Don't be foolish now." Hisses Wintergreen, trying to jerk out of Slade's grip as best he can; surprisingly to me, he succeeds, and without any warning,presses the needle-tip into Slade's arm. Slade winces at first at the prick, then groans unhappily at the substance entering his body and grits his teeth in pain, clenching his jaw so hard that I hear it pop loudly. His limp hands are now fists and he's sweating double-fold; and slowly inch by inch, the contents of the barrel is drained and the orange liquid disappears into Slade's body.

I stare at the needle, at the liquid being pushed into Slade's veins, and I feel an indescribable fear that makes me curl myself up for protection and sends my brain in a dizzying spasm. A prick of remembrance hits me and I pause to try to sort out what it..

"_Why are you wearing that again?"_

_"Please, Slade- I'm scared! I don't know what's-- Aahh!"_

_Why, Slade...? I thought..."_

_"You thought wrong."_

_"...You never stood a chance against him. "_

_"Sorry.. - wasn't...good enough.."_

Suddenly I feel guilty, like I did something wrong...

I turn back to look; there's been an infinite pause of silence between the two of them, until Wintergreen finally plucks the needle from Slade's arm, now two thirds empty. Slade expounds a loud gasp of relief when it's over, exhaustedly letting his head fall against the dashboard console for support. Wintergreen puts the needle back into its case and goes back to the trunk.

While he's gone, I steal a few good looks at Slade, if it's really even him, trying to note everything about him. I try to remember the Slade I know; the older, cynical, hateful version, but it's blurry and weird and just not _there_. I can't get past this man in front of me, who looks so.. normal in comparison. This man who can feel pain, can gasp and cry and sweat bullets; compared with the Slade I know, this man... he doesn't even seem possible.

Wintergreen comes back and has a small orange canister of pills in his left hand and a canteen of water in the right. Slade warily sits up, his head thumping back against the head of his seat. He stares forward, looking like it spent all his energy just doing that. Wintergreen holds the pills out patiently, as though he knows Slade cannot possibly refuse. It takes him almost five minutes, but Slade eventually takes them slowly from Wintergreen's hands without looking at him, disdain evident in his every movement. I see Slade's eyebrows skew with distaste as he looks down at the capsules in his hands, and at once I get a deep wave of sympathy for him, simply by the look of sadness in his face and in his eyes.

Under Wintergreen's careful watch and with begrudged obedience, Slade eventually pops four pills and drinks the water in one hard gulp. Still not looking at either me or Wintergreen, he seems to settle a bit, but his breaths still harsher than normal. Wintergreen sets about unstrapping the weapons from Slade's legs. When he's carefully packed them into what looks like a suitcase, he whispers something to Slade; Slade obediently bends and Wintergreen unstraps the sword scabbard from Slade's back and the chain of bullets from his shoulder.

Once his friend is finished Slade immediately sits back, sighing and running a hand through his hair. He opens his eyes, looks straight ahead for a moment, and then unexpectedly, he turns to look at me; slowly, like he's just noticing me. I feel a jolt in my spine at his stare, and a weird sort of guilt, not knowing if I was supposed to see what had just transpired or not.

He wipes the sweat from the side of his face and just stares for a minute, with no expression on his face; does he not recognize me? Of course not; I'm in some kind of girly-boy body; but then, putting all rationality aside and considering this really is younger Slade, he shouldn't know me in the first place.

-And I just stare back at him with an equal poker-face, but really shivering in my clogs at the weight of his gaze and the pierce of his eyes, his two eyes, hoping that I look natural enough not to arouse suspicion as to why in the world I'm this doll-faced kid and not myself.

He eventually looks away, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the seat. Wintergreen adjusts the seat back a bit for Slade's comfort, then goes back to the trunk, taking out a rag and soaking it in cold water. He comes back and lays it upon Slade's forehead. Wintergreen then gets on one knee and sets about untying Slade's mud-caked combat boots and taking them off and setting them by Slade's rifle. Then he slips off Slade's gloves and folds them up. The loving care at which Wintergreen does all of this for Slade, with gentleness and true adoration, is nothing short of remarkable and makes a lump form in my throat.

Does Wintergreen...?

The thought doesn't have time to take shape. Slade grunts, and Wintergreen comes back with a sandwich in hand with a second canteen of water. Slade rejects the offering and instead, without even opening his eyes, jerks a thumb at me. "Take my boy away, you fool. He's seen enough for one day." His voice is sarcastic and rich with intense bitterness, and there's a biting anger in it that makes both me and Wintergreen flinch at the same time.

"-Yes sir." Says Wintergreen with a stiff upper lip, and I feel sorry for him. He strides to my side of the jeep, and hoists me up into his arms with not so much as a grunt, another action the decrepit Wintergreen of my time would not have been able to do. Then again, this kid's a real shrimp; probably around six years old, and little for his age.

"Come now. We'll go see your mother." says Wintergreen to me, and I can tell he's trying his best to sound nice and calm, but his quick stride and troubled face tell me a different story. He also holds me gently, and I fight off the strange feeling that I should hug him; but it's not my own feeling, I can gather; it's more like it's coming from this body instead of my mind.

He walks towards where the few tents are set up, and a few men dressed in very similar clothing to Slade's, are sitting around the outside of the tent drinking wine and laughing. Wintergreen shifts me a bit in his arms and nods and regards them with a polite,"Gentlemen," at the people who drunkenly shout hello at him.

We abruptly enter the closest tent, and I'm almost surprised as to why such a conscious guy like Wintergreen wouldn't at least announce his presence.

Then I know why.

The two people inside the tent had been passionately making out, the woman sitting in the man's lap, with one of the man's hands on her thigh and the other cupping her chest through her blouse, while her arms are wrapped around his shoulders. They both jump in absolute shock when we intrude, the woman instinctively pulling away from the man she'd been kissing and yelling in fright, "Wintergreen!"

Wintergreen cocks an eyebrow, "Did I come at a bad time, Adeline?"

The man Adeline had been kissing adjusts his hair and leaves the tent in a hurry, his face embarrassed and his eyes still wide with surprise from being caught. His clothes are the same as Slade's, with a gun strapped to his back, and I guess he's probably one of Slade's party; maybe even his close friend?

Adeline heaves a loud sigh of relief after the flap of the tent closes, placing a hand on her chest and a smile cracking through the makeup on her face. "It's only _you_... You scared me."

Wintergreen looks away, clearing his throat, "Yes, well... I thought you might want to know that Slade had another episode."

Adeline, and assuming I'm getting all of this right, this kid's mother, blinks and looks at Wintergreen in a way that suggests a 'why should I care?' attitude. I take a good look at her face; Caked with makeup of every fashion, with deep green emerald eyes that are quite beautiful on their own. She has perfectly permed hair, but in a sort of outdated fashion reminiscent of the late seventies. Her clothes, although plain, have an elegance about them that tells you right away just by glance that she is wealthy and well-provided for. She has a wedding ring on her finger, pearl earrings, a diamond necklace and a jade belt-buckle that further accentuates her wealthy appearance.

She forces a frustrated sigh and takes me from Wintergreen's arms and sits down on the floor of the tent with me in her lap. Her touch is not as gentle or caring as Wintergreen's, and in a moment she's lit a cigarette over my head. The smell doesn't bother me so much as the way it makes the back of my throat feel as I breathe it in, and I fight back the urge to run from her arms and back to Wintergreen's.

"..So is he alright?" Asks Adeline.

"It's not nearly as awful as the last time. Thanks to the drugs he'll be better in a matter of hours."

Adeline scoffs and takes the cigarette from her mouth, "It's his own fault. I told him I didn't want to go on this silly trip. I don't see why we have to go so far out in the country like this just so he and his friends can kill things.."

"Master Wilson says he wants to build a house here. In Kenya."

Adeline bursts out in laughter, leaning over so her brown curly hair and some of the ashes of the cigarette fall in my face. "Ha! Like that will ever happen! There's no way I'm living in such a dirt poor place like this with savages running all about."

Wintergreen sits down and nonchalantly takes me from Adeline's grip, subsequently brushing the small pile of ashes from my head and sitting me in his own lap.

"Adeline, they say it will be good for his condition. Britain holds too many memories for him, and you know that the U.S. is no longer an option. I doubt he'd like to live there considering what the army did to him."

Adeline's quiet, thinking hard, then reasons, "...Where will Joseph go to school?" Her eyes look straight at me with not one bit of smile or joy in them. Is my name Joseph?

Wintergreen touches my head and strokes the waves of my hair, "There is a good school in the village that goes up to the sixth grade. He'll be happy there. Afterwards we'll find a different school for him."

Adeline sighs, extinquishing her cigarette on the material of the tent and standing up, "Fine. I don't care. I'll do it for you, but don't expect me to be happy about it."

I feel Wintergreen's hands subconsciously tighten around me, "You'll be helping your _husband_, Adeline. You _should_ be happy for him if it helps him get better."

She swings around on her way out, half-opening the tent, her nose wrinkling in disgust, "Yeah, right- Happy for the husband that drove my first-born son mad? No. Never. I'll _never _forgive him. I thought you'd understand that." She slaps the tent closed and rushes out. Wintergreen hugs me tightly afterwards, lowering his head against mine, and in a moment I can hear Adeline's voice laughing and giggling and carrying on with the other people. Is he about to cry?

Maybe this timeline isn't as vibrant and happy as I thought... now it seems just as dark and mucked as my own.

Wintergreen turns me around and picks me up, standing up and smiling somewhat melancholily at me, "Don't worry about your father, Joe. What you saw was nothing but him getting really tired. He'll be okay." It sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than me. He drapes me over his shoulder like a father burping his child and takes me outside, the sun immediately burning my eyes.

The jeep Slade was in is already gone. Did he leave?

We walk into a different tent, a smaller one, and I suppose it belongs to this kid because it's dome-shaped and child-sized. He unzips it and only I can fit inside of it. Inside the tent is a small fan and a radio, looking surprisingly classical and old. How far back in time am I?

Wintergreen pokes his head through the flap of the tent, "Time for your afternoon nap. I'll come wake you up when it's time for supper." He smiles and before I can argue that I'm not tired, he zips the tent up and is gone.

I'm just about to open up the tent again to leave and there's a flash in my eyes like a camera's and the memory comes to an abrupt stop.

Did I fall asleep?

No. I realize that I'm back in that motionless void, the same as before, and the same terror creeps up on me again. What was that all about? Why was I shown that? What was the point?

Slade. I saw Slade and Wintergreen and some woman named Adeline who's supposed to be my mother. When I try to remember it, it's just a fuzzy pain in my nonexistent chest and a shooting spark in my head; the anger and spite that that woman felt for Slade, not only in her dialogue but in her aura, were so strong that it had been overwhelming. And Slade's pain and lethargy and Wintergreen's love towards him... was I meant to see all of that?

The tingling at the ends of my nerves begins to form into feeling again; the feeling of something soft, like a bed. My brain starts to recognize the five senses again, and my consciousness begins to seep in like a curdled liquid to my brain and my body, slowly but surely taking more form. I feel like I just got off a roller coaster, and suddenly I can feel my eyes and my nose and my lips and everything else take shape in a bleary sort of way.

Then I woke up..

_Slade's POV_

I lift up Robin's torso, propping him up against one arm, and with the other, dress him in a fresh black robe. A tad disappointed at seeing the pretty sand-colored flesh and rose-colored nipples of my apprentice disappear underneath the cloth, but I, being the martyr that I am, deduct his warmth is more important than my insatiable hard-on that just won't let me be.

I lay him down against the bed once again. I reach down beside the bed and place the bucket of ice and wine bottles that I brought. I don't bother with a glass; not now anyway, and I simply uncap one of the green glass bottles and chug directly from it. I close my eye and force the liquid down my throat, not stopping until the bottle is more than half empty. At the end of my binge I let out a sigh and close my eyes, feeling a dull sting in my throat as the intoxicating vintage drink going through my system and putting me at a slight ease.

I glance down at Robin, at his sleeping face that doesn't move, doesn't even look like it breathes; it never took this long for him to wake up before. It was usually a ten second thing when Joey had possessed him.

Joey's name sinks like a rock in my throat, getting lodged there. He's truly gone. Resolved. There are no more options, no more roads; but I was a fool. I'd lived without Joey for years, thinking he were dead; indeed, his memory had always been there in the back of my mind, but I'd found ways to cope and move on. And when I found out that he hadn't actually been dead, that there might have been a second chance, what did I do?

I kicked Robin to the curb in favor of trying to ignite my old flame.

How naive I was. To think that it would work. To think that Joey would still be the same little boy after so long. And there's also guilt; a sadness that hangs over my head, a weight on my shoulders: Joey became that evil thing, that loquacious, spiteful, childish person; he was transformed, and I can't help gathering from his words that I'm the one that did it to him, the one who'd made him change from sweet to bitter, to grow up to become a monster, just like his old man.

You were a child, Joey. All you wanted was a father to teach you, to be there for you, to support you and love you, and I wasn't capable of that. I was an international assassin, a terrorist for the highest bidder, and I _loved_ what I did; for once in my life, I was happy. I knew I'd found what I wanted to do, my calling: but it put my family at such a risk that I knew that if I wanted to continue my profession, no emotion should or would be allowed to be expressed or even to be admitted existence.

Did I love my job more than you, Joey? In that filthy crap-stained warehouse, with nothing between you and me but the Jackal and a few henchmen and a switchblade-... did I pick killing over you, Joey? Did I love hurting other people _so much _that my love for you was unimportant in comparison?

It doesn't matter anyway. You never felt the same way I felt for you from day one, and you never would have, even if you'd lived. I know in my heart that if you'd just stayed in Britain.. if you hadn't grown so attached to your father in the way that you were- starving, groping for my affections- if you'd just stayed in Britain, you wouldn't have been killed because of me, and your love for me would eventually fade into nothing but residual dust- perhaps, more than likely, if you'd grown up normally, you'd have even developed hatred towards me- hate at the father who had "molested" you, "raped" you... And that would have been a far more favourable outcome for me.

I would rather you had hated me while retaining some of your dignity and innocence than becoming the warped thing I glimpsed today.

How foolish I was to even think that my ten year old son could have possibly reciprocated my feelings of love and of sexual need. How confused he must have been, thinking that his father drunkenly crawling into his bed at night and fucking him was the equivalent of the affection he'd been wanting. It's so cruel, yet in a way, I don't regret it in the least. Regret is an emotion, and I've become terribly sick of those after what just happened. Joey's return was like a douse of cold water while asleep; he gave me hope; he made me love him again, made me yearn for him; then made me tire of him, become wary of him, to hate him, and eventually, to despise him, and in the very end, to come to a sort of mutual parting. To accept. But have I really?

I don't think I will ever recover from this..

My heart aches in such a way that I genuinely wish I were only a machine with nothing to it but wires and gears and circuits.

Why can't I? It should be simple. I've done it before, and I could do it again. I keep thinking I have nothing to lose, nothing to restrain me from simply unplugging myself and becoming that robotic killer again.

Except I_ can't_.

Robin.

He is also a young boy. Not even fourteen years old yet. Barely the age limit elligible for the title _Teen_ Titan at all.

He... confuses me.

All this time I've taken him as my apprentice, I have been trying to change him. To better him. I have been leading him on to embrace this lifestyle, to forget the ties that bind him, for his own good...and I still wait for the day when he fully does fulfill this, but...

...I wonder if in fact he's begun to change _me_?

I can't just _accept _that.

He reminds me of Joey, so subconsciously that I did not even realize how painfully obvious their similarities are. On a different level, he reminds me of Grant as well; determined, straight-forward, frustrated. He reminds me of myself more than anything.. But even more than all of that combined, there is something about him that effects me in ways I can't understand anymore. It is an attraction, polarity, something that has drawn me to him ever since Batman first spoke of him to me.

I killed Batman because I wanted to be his father-figure; his provider. To make sure he had no one else to lean back on but myself. And I definitely feel that same sort of pride for him that I once felt with Grant; A fatherly, tough-love kind that doesn't mind smacking him around to get a point across. I want him to be like me, to grow up like me, to rear him and then to have him carry on my name. No doubt these feelings may simply be residual from my past relationships with my sons; my offspring, one missing and one dead, I definitely do not blame myself for feeling the need to have a.. replacement. Something to leave behind.

_That_ was the original intent of my plan to make him my apprentice. It still is. And I was content with that alone, for a while.

But then there is also my cock, which evidently wants badly to get in the way of that close-to-platonic existence.

But then, even deeper, there is a far more hidden part; the part of me that I often times don't admit to myself is even there. That thinks that I could possibly...

-Never. Not again. I felt that way about Joey, and look at where it got me in the long run: Heart broken, dejected, miserable- It's disgusting to feel so low because of another human being's effect on you. It's silly and brainless. To actually think that affection could still exist in a mind as scarred and revoltingly offensive as mine is nothing but false, idealistic hope that is nothing more than garbage.

If it weren't for that small, pathetic voice in the deepest bowels of my head, I would probably be screwing the poor boy night and day. I already got a slight feel of what it would be like: Joey, inside my Robin's body, saw to that. I remember the kisses trailing down my stomach; the touch of his soft fingers wrapped around my manhood; the short, split-second sight of his pink tongue flicking out to taste me; The bobbing of his head, of his wet lips kissed around me; of the hard, sweating warmth at the back of his throat. The heat of his _breath_...

And I can't help feeling- No- _knowing_ that if it had actually been Robin, conscious, and foremost, _willing_.. it would have been a thousand times better than even that had been. For although Joey had been far more sexually knowledgable than my apprentice, he seemed suspiciously so; in a way that suggested familiarity, like a prostitute who's done it a hundred times and knows the rounds; like an old married couple going through a strict routine. There was no feeling; no passion on his part while there was, in turn, plenty on mine. I know now, from his leaving confession only moments ago, that it was not love (at least not the kind that I felt for him) that had allowed him to commit such acts with me. In the past, it had been out of loyalty; devotion; and a quenching thirst for his father's attention. Now, when he managed to come back from the land of the living for whatever intent, sex with me was merely a tool; a very _effective_ tool he used to control me, to bind me to him, to pollute my mind once again with old feelings of nostalgia. A manipulative little bastard, once again, just like his father.

To have someone under his finger. To have _me_ beneath _him _for a change.

It was a sexual act, and yes, it had been amazing, but perhaps it was because Joey was inside Robin's body that it had been so pleasing for me in the first place?

I'm looking forward to feeling those kisses, those hands, lips and tongue and throat again, but with Robin's far more... _inexperienced_ hand. To go about the learning curve, _teaching_ him...

Yes, if I had a spine, Robin would already be broken in now; a sexual play thing at my most objective disposal. It wouldn't matter to me how he felt about it; in fact, I would bathe his protests, in his screams of pain; excited and aroused by his struggles and attempts to escape. It's who I am: a sadist. Every life decision I've ever made has inadvertently been an excuse to harm other human beings. I would bend him and break him, play with him until all his steam ran out, have him running on fumes until his tank finally ran out of gas; destroy his spirit and extinguish that spark that made me attracted to him in the first place. Drag him down to my level and fuck him so hard that nothing would be left of him but a dry, empty husk; it wouldn't matter to me if he didn't _like_ it.. I wouldn't give a damn, wouldn't even give it_ thought_, if Robin hated me with every fiber of his being; because _I_ would have gotten what_ I _hadwanted.

But that's_ not_ what I want.

It's _not_ satisfying.

Not anymore.

And it makes all the difference in the world.

Fin! (To be continued...)

Aaww. Really sorry about the slow updates lately. I'm NOT dead, I assure you. Other things are swarming around me that it's difficult to get free time to write. But don't worry- the story will go on as long as people are reading and enjoying it. This chapter basically wrapped up the last arc, and the next chapter will begin a totally new storyline. Yay! I know I always say this, but you guys are awesome and I appreciate everyone who reads and especially everyone who leaves reviews. (The purple button commands you!)

Seeya next time!


	17. Sweet Lili's Secret

The Bird and His Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Disclaimer: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material possessions. I like my material possessions...

Notes: Ho man, bet you didn't expect me to update so quick, yah? Well, this is yet another one-shot-ish chapter. I'm sorry to keep doing this to you all. But there are just certain things that I think need special attention. Super fast update, but... super-duper short. Oh well. This was going to be part of chapter eighteen, but I just couldn't help myself- I thought it deserved its own chapter because of major, MAJOR plot development, so please read it carefully. Thanks a lot.

This chapter is dedicated to RobinRocks, as I think she will especially love this chapter.

_Third Person POV_

Sweet Lili can't help but smile as she bends over and picks up a stuffed teddy bear from the red carpet of the children's nursery; a worn-out brown color with the stuffing seeping out. The grin doesn't leave her face as she dusts it off, picks off some of the loose fuzz, and sits it on one of the red-colored sofas in the room. The room, like everything in Lili's life, is in traditional Cambodian theme, with curtains hung from the low-hanging ceiling. Some of the lights in the ceiling are busted, and the couches all have their unique rips and tears from kids and pets alike.

The nursery is located in in a large building seated at the coastline, that functions as everything from Lili's home, to the brothel she runs and operates, to a safe place for the small children of the girls who work for her.

A combination of prostitution and daycare.

She normally wouldn't do such menial things as cleaning up the nursery; she is a princess after all, and is strict about being treated as such. Right now, she'd usually be lying in her room, sipping tea or whatever she felt like, while being waited on by several of her girls. She would never think of condescending from her perch to assist with cleaning. But for some reason, today, the Asian mistress has had a change of heart. Indeed, her more than often obnoxious, yelling and selfish attitude has been replaced by a serene smile; calm and gentle like Mother Mary, as though she's ascended to a divine level of enlightenment that no one but she can understand. Her own nirvana that nobody but her could ever reach.

Her hair is not glossy and conditioned and beautifully combed as it usually is, but lays straight and unbrushed over her shoulders and back, as though she hasn't had time to care for it that day or even the last several. Perhaps she simply does not care; perhaps she can't think of anything else but _it_. Maybe even _him_.

She wears no layers of makeup, in fact, none at all. Her normally flashy traditional Cambodian attire has been replaced with a plain white T-shirt with no bra, and black shorts, with no shoes on.

She picks up a few more scattered toys, varying from the children's and the pet's, putting them all back in their respective places. She clears the coffee-table of left over food, and vaccuums the entire room with an ancient-looking vaccuum cleaner.

She turns off the cleaner, silence falling on the empty room. The children are all playing outside, and all of the girls are either working or playing with the children. Lili feels a small bit of loneliness, frowning slightly as she pads across the carpet to the other side of the room. She comes to stop in front of a crib, and not a fancy one, not even well-kept or tidy in the least; the type with plastic lining and plastic vertical bars on each side, with moons and stars patterned across the scuffed light blue surface. It looks washed out, like it's been thoroughly used for centuries, perhaps passed down to her from several generations of relatives. Pastel-colored mobiles of stars hang from a chaffing string, looking more dirty and worn-out than cheery and interesting.

Lili runs her unmanicured nails across the crib's surface absent mindedly, her gaze growing lidded and a strand of her hair falling in front of her face.

She ponders about _him_ and wrestles with so many emotions- so many questions- she struggles with her yearning for him, her need to have him by her side- her want for him to love her, and only her. She is a proud woman; a strong woman. She cannot care for a man that bows before her, that is not a match for her determination and, yes, selfish need to be number one. She only settles for the best, and after years of men constantly in her bed, she knows from an unfathomable amount of experience that _he_ is the only one she will ever deem worthy of her.

Perhaps it's just love. Maybe just selfish infatuation. Oblong obsession. Lili doesn't care what it is. She knows what she wants, and she's always found ways to get it.

Lili's grip on the crib tightens.

She thinks of _him_ and automatically another person comes to mind; but instead of feelings of womanliness and lust that thoughts of _him_ provoke, her emotions turn to sheer _hatred_; scalding and boiling in her heart, and along with those come humiliation and a forcibly humbled feeling.

That stupid nuiscance of a _boy_... if he was gone...

She shakes her head and opens her eyes as though woken from a hypnotic trance; she realizes that she can't let her anger get the best of her in this period of its development. Flying off the handle like she is known for doing could be unhealthy for both of them.

Perhaps the woman has changed; softened. Found peace. Maybe she is simply repressing her more violent and passionate emotions in this delicate time frame.

She knows what she is capable of.

She just has to wait.

Lili smiles, letting go of the crib's railing and letting her hand descend to the rim of her shirt. She rucks it up and reveals to our studio audience something shocking; instead of her usually flat stomache, it is now rounded; protruding in such a way that it could not possibly be of a simple period of 'letting oneself go'. Her eyes fall to look at her growing belly fondly, obviously showing child. She rubs her hand against its smooth surface, as if she is apologizing for losing her temper, and thus letting go of the zen-like state she'd so carefully been entertaining only moments ago.

Because inside is a baby.

Her smile widens as she imagines of how he will react if he finds out: her beloved garbed in steel with the wolf-grey hair and sapphire eyes.

_His_ baby.

Fin! (to be continued...)

Ending notes: Ohh jeeze.. I've been thinking about this development for a while... I'm a little worried about what's going to happen next, and I'm the one writing the story! -twiddles fingers nervously- I have a feeling our favorite baddie is in for some more emotional turmoil soon...

Robin will get his own spotlight chapter next! Yay!

On a side note, you can check out new links to videos I've made on youtube. kk?

Any questions and comments about this would be SO appreciated in a review. Your feedback keeps me goin', ya hear?


	18. Divergence part 1

The Bird and His Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Disclaimer: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material possessions. I like my material possessions...

Notes: Gahh.. so basically, if anyone's remembered that I'm still updating this fic, I'll be impressed. Please don't be turned off by the Wintergreen prologue- it is just to wrap up some things and his subplot thing-goings-on will be elaborated on later on.

So.. no matter how I look at this chapter, I'm not satisfied with it. I don't think I have the skill nor the time to put in completely the exact words and feelings that I would like for the scenes near the end. Plus, writing from Robin's POV again was stressful, since I haven't done it since, what.. chapter 12? Well, Technically chapter 16 was in his POV, but.. that doesn't count I guess, since it was... Robin's experience while Joey took over his body.. I guess..

Jeeze. This fic is getting complicated even for me. I don't know when it will end, either. It just keeps going as long as I keep getting ideas. (Not even good ones..) I just wish I was a more skilled writer so that I could convey more clearly how Robin feels in this chapter... please don't hate him...!

Oh yes... and we're a year old now!! Yes... we've actually been a year old for six months now, so... coolness! The two year mark is not so far away... Neato.. And plus, 350 reviews! Thanks you guys. Without you it would be meaningless. So thanks a lot.

-RAW-

_Third Person POV_

A strange fear filled Wintergreen's heart when he spotted the T-shaped platform sitting in the water; a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time, not since he was a young leiutenant sent out on the front lines, fighting for his country with all of this heart. But the fear wasn't _so_ much rooted in the fact that depending on which path he took, his life could be at stake... no, this fear wasn't the same as being embroiled knee-deep in war. It wasn't so cut and dry, and instead of receding as it did when the relief showered over him many a year ago, dozens of times, when he realized that he'd _literally_ dodged a bullet; no, this sort of fear _didn't_ go away. It sat and fermented in his stomache, his body, in his cells, weakening him and making him into something so much less of himself...

He knew, from Bruce's many lectures, both on the phone and in person, what he had to do. He knew what he had to say- he knew well the responsibility that had rightfully been placed on his ever-weakening shoulders.

He knew, and yet, his mind still ran from it.

Wintergreen stares across the harbor now, his hands holding tightly to the rails as though he were on the deck of ship and suffering from sea-sickness. He very well could have, with the wishy-washy, sickly feeling the old man was experiencing reguarding his impending fate. He smells the damp harbor air due to the just-fallen rain, and wipes some beads of condensation from his dishevelled mustache with a slight sniffle.

He wondered to himself warily what Bruce- what Batman- was doing. It had been a day and a half since Bruce had left in a jet from Gotham to Jump City with revenge against Master Wilson- _Slade_, as the first thing on his agenda.

Had Batman succeded? If so, why hadn't he contacted him? He supposed he'd be the first one the man would inform after victory, to cancel any unecisary meddling from Wintergreen himself. Who knew? Perhaps Robin was already in Gotham, safe and recooperating, or even within the very tower Wintergreen now hesitantly stared upon?

But what if he'd failed? It seemed the most probable of outcomes, since no communication had come from Bruce since departure. He knew, in the back of his mind, that Bruce meant for a fight with Slade, to the death.

But that would be suicide on Bruce's part..

Had the man had death in mind from the beginning?

Had he known of his fate, and gone anyway?

_... "...No matter if the odds are stacked against me ten fold, for Richard, I can do anything." ..._

Wintergreen felt torn. He knew that, despite Batman's unorthodox ways, he really _did_ personify justice as well as any mortal man could. He knew that Batman winning would be a blessing, a miracle- something _good_... he knew the man to be righteous. But part of him, a large part of his thoughts, still flinched at the thought of Slade being imprisoned for life, or worse, killed by Batman. It hated seeing that image as much as the better part of him hated the thought of Slade once again getting his way. He was mixed up, not knowing what to believe or what side to settle upon.

He felt a knot begin to form in his stomache as he felt guiltiness rising from the depths of him. If Bruce was really dead, then he'd truly given the ultimate sacrifice for his former partner. And here _he_ was, just sitting and thinking, close to a heart-attack and far too worried about his own skin to act in a way that would produce anything favorable. Too scared to get on that barge and go to that tower on that island- still far too attached to his former friend to force his feet to move, to make his hands stop gripping the railing like the coward he thought himself.

He had to go. He knew it in his heart. He _had_ to go _now_ or it would eventually be too late for him _and_ for Robin, and if Batman really had perished in his confrontation with Slade, then it would only be a matter of time before Slade connected it together and found out that Batman and himself had made contact with eachother...

_If Slade discovered he was doing this..._

He didn't want to think about what he would suffer if that were to happen.

But he _had_ to, didn't he? It was his duty, for Bruce- for all of the people he'd indirectly harmed by assisting Slade all those years. Not until he'd left Slade's base, he'd knowingly helped Slade, and indeed, Slade would not have been quite as successful or wealthy right now if Wintergreen hadn't been helping him for so long. He knew it had all been wrong. He knew that if he'd been strong enough, he could have spared tens, maybe hundreds of lives just by leaving Slade's partnership alone. He knew he had to take a chance and risk his life to help the titans.

...But he had no clue how he'd convince the Titans that he was trust-worthy, let alone what he'd say for them to even hear him out. He knew very well that after Robin's blatant betrayal, they'd trust _no one_. There would be a definite issue with his credibility right from the get go; he'd be scrutinized, interrogated, and whether by his own admission or the Titan's own investigation, it would eventually come out that he had not only _worked_ for Slade, but was still somehow, albeit begrudgingly, _loyal_ to the man.

He would immediately be viewed as an enemy after that.

Although he appeared physically simply an aged gentleman, he was still a capable fighter; he'd been, in his youth, a top-ranked combatant of the British armed forces, and had been trained by the best. And, although he wasn't quite up to par with Slade, Bruce, or Robin- or the Titans themselves for that matter, he was still, in his old age, a threat in some ways.

If he _wanted_ to be, of course.

But violence no longer had a place in his life, and he'd never _enjoyed_ fighting, at least not in the way Slade did. Wintergreen, in the good spirit of his altruistic and marytering ways, found himself entering the army to help protect his country and its people; he fought for honor, for the sake of his loved ones- for glory, and _never_ for sport.

So why had he participated in Slade's criminal acts? Everything Slade did for his 'living' went against every single moral-code Wintergreen harbored. He'd sat back and watched as Slade pillaged and killed and participated in a myriad of ungodly acts as he wished; he'd _knowingly_ played a part in the harm, the exploitation, even the _extermination_, of hundreds of innocent human beings. Wintergreen knew all along that he'd been in the wrong, that _Slade_ had been in the wrong, and every day, he'd prayed for forgiveness. He'd pray over and over for redemption, in hopes that it would help, even a little, to absolve his sins; but he knew deep in his heart that he could never make up for his crimes until he found the strength to _leave_ his long-time friend.

He had. When he'd seen what Slade had become, that night, he'd heard Robin's cry and had rushed to the boy's room to find Slade kneeling over the boy's body; Slade had cooly, unfeelingly, _unabashedly_, explained to him what he'd been up to, and that had been the last straw for Wintergreen's patience.

Child molestation was _not_ something Wintergreen condoned, and it was the straw that had broken the camel's back.

In fact, it made him sick to his stomache just thinking that Slade would dare do such a thing...

He had suddenly seen the light. Seen Slade for what he had really become, and not for what Wintergreen had once known him as. For what Wintergreen had always been tricking himself into thinking was still the Slade he'd cared for.

He knew. He had the chance to make things right; to save Robin from Slade before he was completely consumed by him; to keep his word to Bruce that he would fight for good again, like he had in the army all those years ago; to at least try to redeem himself for all of the horrible things he'd helped Slade to do, to make up for the precious time and lives lost...

He had a chance to make things _right._

So why was it that he just standing on the docks, his feet glued to the cement, when he could be inside the Tower, talking, explaining- doing _something_ more productive? He'd finally found the chance he'd been searching for for years to make things _right_, but it was slowly slipping past his fingers with every day he waited, every minute he pondered over it.

It's because he never, in all those years working for Slade, sought to _change_ his ways; he'd never _once_ defied or questioned Slade's command, despite personal displeasure at Slade's lifestyle and acitivities. Slade's word was absolute in his world, Slade's desires were of upmost importance, the man's contentment the most important thing in the old man's world.

Why? One's first guess would be, from any other person's point of view, is fear; a perfect motive to blame so many things on. So simple, so easy for a coward such as he to hide behind like he had been for years. So Logical. Of course, faced with the thought of betraying the loyalty of a powerful man such as Slade and the reprecussions that would ensue, any normal person would be scared and would resign themselves to sitting obediently by his side; but fear had been only a smaller percentage of the reason he'd stayed by the man's side so long, so devoutly.

No, he knew it wasn't the fear that kept him stock-still as he stared hollowly at the T-shaped tower so very close and so simple to reach; he knew fear wasn't what kept him from redemption, from making the same noble sacrifice Bruce had made; it wasn't fear that made him spineless; that kept him from helping a city in danger; that kept him from helping a boy that he knew full well was obviously in trouble. He knew it was something much, much more complicated, and _far_ more difficult for him to overcome alone.

...It was love.

_Robin's POV_

Waking up from that strange, nostalgic dream, and then from that abnormal, black place of disembodiment, felt like I was moving through galaxies, even though I know it only took a few split seconds to regain some kind of consciousness within my own body, it still felt like it took all of my spiritual effort to will myself back to living and breathing.

It begins first when I finally feel my own nerves; to my relief, alive and fully-functional. My head's still a rowboat lost in a hurricane, but at least it now it isn't alone; it's aware now that it has a body again. I'm briefly reminded of that scary place in my mind, where no sense of touch existed; no one there for me, no one there but myself, and even I, no more than a half-life, tugging on shredded memories of what smells and tastes and sights felt like when experienced by my own body. That place of unparallelled loneliness... Was that place really... inside of my mind? A part of _me_?

I was almost eaten whole by it...that feeling of complete lonesomness...

_I never want to feel that way again..._

I push those thoughts to the back of my mind, letting the rest of my plethora of thoughts sink into their wake as they regress. I focus on more positive feelings; after being in such a place, a place where I was all but dead, living is a pleasure. I can feel my hands, my face- I can feel my eyelids twitch and my lips part- my toes flex and my elbows against something soft- simply relieved to own a face again!

But relief only lasts for a sweet moment, for in the next seconds, true physical awareness reaches my brain and I feel something is _already_ awry.

Pain. You'd think I'd be used to it now, right? The more I come back to reality, the more and more I grow to feel it; tingling and burning and aching all at the same time. Though the reason is unknown to me, I immediately, albeit subconsciously, pinpoint where it's coming from; the pain is specifically, deeply concentrated in a number of areas- dizzily, blindingly awake in exact bones, and then permeating gradually to other areas. I realize that it's my wrists, my ankles, my joints- and the back of my throat- that feel the worst. It's all a fuzzy, needle-like feeling like when you stop the blood flow to a part of your body and a limb falls asleep; except that this is far more constant, and far more unpleasant.

But despite the intense feelings of displeasure in those areas, I'm still kind of.. comfortable. Dressed in soft material like a bathrobe, surrounded by warmth. On my back, lying on a familiar bed. Slade's bed..?

Slade.. there's something in the back of my mind that I know I shouldn't forget.. something important..

Suddenly my mind remembers, slowly, like trickles of water through a faulty dam; the thoughts keep coming and coming as I will them to myself, closer, closer, until finally the dam breaks and the water overflows in a flood of liquid rememberance- memories all warping together into a strange concoction of emotions and feelings that are alien to me but also so clear and vivid that I know that they couldn't be anything else but my own.

I can still smell the dryness of the grass- the smell of girl's shampoo in my hair. I can still remember having to see the world beyond that curly yellow curtain of bangs in front of my eyes. I can still feel the heat of that unprotected sun, the starchy stiffness of those school clothes and the wooden clogs heavy on my small, dainty feet- absently, I can still see the hunter, running across the field with weapons hanging from every part of his person, with an aura so energetic and ferocious it was definitely overwhelming, but strikingly, disturbingly familiar to someone I know in this present day. Then I remember everything taking a turn for the worst for him, and seeing him sitting in the jeep while his very strength and life was sucked away from him, along with his pride, his independence, his free will, as he felt humiliated to succumb to his own desease. I saw his caring right-hand man's unconditional love that was brighter than the sky itself as he treated that very illness with the stab of a needle.

The frivolous wife- a traitor, a cheater, but also so tired...

The little boy with whispy yellow hair who fears the hunter more than anything but also loves him more than anything too.

The butterfly and its cage.

_"Are you going to keep it or let it go?"_

I know they're all connected somehow... so why can't I understand?

I feel my eyes start to flinch, I feel the sprained parts of my body begin to fire off waves of pain to my brain at a much deeper, faster rate- until I become so distracted by waking up that I can't focus on what I was thinking about only a moment ago. The more I wake up, the farther away I become from it, from that place and time that had a facade of happiness, a layer of joyous indulgence, yet was on the brink of desintigration itself. A melancholy period of time where things were not as they appeared to anyone involved. I know that for some reason, that was meant for something.. I was meant to see it! To live it. Foggily I try to hang onto it, but it craftily transforms into mist and slips through my fingers and escapes me.

Wiped clean and gone.

But something else distracts me from the mounting pain in precise parts of my body; a strong feeling of a human presence beside me; I focus on it, trying to overcome my extreme feelings of vertigo and dispolarity.

As if in an answer to telepathic commands, I feel the bed shift and the person I felt comes closer; I feel their body heat inch nearer and nearer until their hands and arms, big and strong, find their way about me and hold me... and in an odd way, this gesture both steadies and excites my heart-rate at the same time. Easily I recognize his smell, his touch, and know it's him. My eyes squint and I pries open, desperate to see him- desperate to see _someone_, vaguely remembering the loneliness I felt only a while ago in that scary, dark place that was obviously a figment of my mind, yet... more real than most things that are. There was no one there with me, no one to help me or comfort me...

But he's here now- has he been beside me, waiting for me, all along..?

and for these seconds... even if I'm simply delusional, even mad with insecurity and neediness brought on by that frightening place in my mind.. even, admittedly, from Slade's quite evident manipulation of me... maybe insane purely from the confusion I'm feeling..

...Even considering all that's happened, I've never wanted to see anyone more in my entire life right now than him.

I open my eyes with an initial blur, his grey hair the most vibrant thing I can see- the rest is a sticky mesh of colors that I can't even begin to try to discern or sort. He speaks to me,

"Robin..."

I elatedly groan at the sound of his voice as it caresses my ears and every part of me.

If his touch had given me life, then his voice gives me _breath_.. restoring me in the baptism of its low rumble, throaty and gruff; but subdued and gentle for the moment with a hint of concern and feeling...sensual and rough as a lion's purr, making me want to cling to him and play the part of his baby cub.

I shut my eyes tightly again, getting dizzy from the doubling and tripling of things in the room, afraid that if I don't I may either become sick or feint all over again. Not to mention that the stinging pain hasn't yet left, and I can't even tell why its there or why I'm hurt in the first place. My mind is troubled with the fact that prior to falling asleep, these yet unseeable injuries didn't exist- yet, I wake with them now in full, distressed bloom.

His arms still curled around my frame, I feel them grasp even closer to me, his hands clutching at the fabric of my robe and pulling me upwards towards his own frame; I make a small sound of protest, my head tipping backwards from fatigue like a ragdoll. He moves one of his hands to support the back of my head, grasping my hair and ruffling it affectionately between long, hard adult fingers, and I hear him subsequently chuckle softly, amused like a parent waking up their child after they drifted to sleep somewhere unexpected.

Even with my head swimming, I have a vague idea of what happens next, from what usually happens in the story "Sleeping Beauty", but I'm in no shape or state of coherence to even fathom protest- and, knowing in the back of my mind, that now, I probably never_ would_.

He kisses me.

And when our lips touch, his are so comforting and warm that they make my heart melt through my chest and drain down into my toes; while mine are chapped and probably cold and unpleasant in comparison to his. He notices like I do, of course, and withdraws his lips with bruising gentleness; Despite myself, I selfishly let out a small groan of frustration at his leaving, missing the sudden heat his kiss provided- twisting and pushing up my hips in a greedy venture to find his body again.

Slade grows quiet; but even so, I can still feel his single eye on me, its scan feeling like hands and fingers and palms roughening up and down my person, examining me with its intent, focused gaze. I can hear his low breathing, his exhales louder than his inhales. Why is he staring? Watching? Does he think I'm pathetic for making such a sound? Is he blissfully relishing the moment and honoring it with a moment of silence, or regretting kissing me in the first place and mentally berating my weakness?

I soon get my answer when he returns to me a second later- this time not with lips, but instead with his soft, wet tongue-- and with it my master graces my lips, licking at them with soft, controlled strokes- and the feel of him makes me shiver in his arms, visibly tensing up at his unorthodox assault. As if in an answer to my shaking and shivering, suddenly his muscle pushes and kisses against my lips with more force, until they're forced apart- and he runs his tongue wetly against the edge of my top row of teeth, causing me to jump slightly in his arms at the shocking momentary contrast between hard and soft things. Supposing he deems them sufficient, he playfully flicks his tongue against my upper lip as he withdraws as second time.

My lips feel moist and warm- not to the point of _numb_, but the same sort of buzzing feeling you get in your nerves as such.

My eyes still closed tightly, I feel him retreat a bit- as though he's leaning back to search at all of me, like a painter critically assessing his own work. The thought of this brings heat to my face, and I want to look up at him, but I don't dare open my eyes yet for fear of the dizzyness that almost made me sick.

But he's still holding me in his arms, and I feel them physically tighten around me and lean me up against him whilst he leans back down to me.

And at once I feel some of his hair brush against my forehead, and then a second afterwards his lips are kissing mine again- first as a gentle buss; something soft and dry, a simple peck between two pairs of lips... but then he_ tilts his head _in a way that makes my temperature sky-rocket, that sends queer, excited tingles down to the centre of my body; that makes me nervous and makes my breath hitch against his lips. Part of me is telling me that _nothing_ on Earth should feel _this good_. An older man, someone I once despised-... his praise, his embrace, the feeling of his arms holding me- his body heat, the queer sweetness of his tongue- and his _presence_... it all shouldn't be so satisfying.. something like this shouldn't make me quiver in his arms, shouldn't awaken these sort of needy feelings in me... but at the same time, I can't deny their existence as they flare red hot in my heart and circulate down to my groin.

It's a strange- The burning pain of my sightless injuries that are painfully still there, are subdued by something in Slade that is so hot that it ravages me far worse than any physical wound could.

And as Slade's tilting his head, he's parting his lips and pressing his tongue fully into my mouth. I shudder visibly as it brushes against mine- flicking against it, as if trying to ressusitate it. For a long moment I hesitate- and the hotness and the wetness of Slade's mouth makes me forget for a very long time just what _I'm_ supposed to be doing. I attempt to kiss him back, hesitantly poking my tongue against his- but the split moment I do he retreats his tongue swiftly back into his own mouth, and mine unthinkingly plays follow the leader.

Caught unaware by Slade's teasing and my own audacity at me actually putting _my_ tongue in _Slade's_ mouth, I accidentally break the kiss completely due to my own surprise. I open my eyes, blinking and startled, and from my slight angle, I can only see his ear beneath some of his raggedly messy-looking hair- but I can tell his eye is still closed, his lips are still apart, waiting patiently for me to continue.

For a small second, I remember the first time we kissed, when he first forced me to kiss him. I knew it had been for my friends. Back then, it was all it was. It was for the team, and even more so, for my own surivival. I was so afraid. He said he wouldn't 'harm me' if I kissed him. Even as inexperienced as I am with these adult-sort of things, Slade had made it painfully obvious what he wanted to do, and as far as I knew, I knew it wasn't something I would enjoy. Despite my strength, my training and my skills, I knew Slade had the power to do whatever he wanted to me if he wished, whenever he felt like it. He demonstrated very easily that he didn't mind hitting me, pinning me to the floor, or killing the people I loved in order to get what he wanted. I had no choice to believe he would go completely through with his threats.

Just that one time, I thought. It was a choice between the easy way and the hard away, the lesser of two evils. I could cooperate Slade, give and take, do kissing things- things I sort of knew about, that people who are... _together_... do.. or it would have been the alternative.

And back then, even though I wasn't- and still am not- completely sure what the alternative would have been, I was convinced I did not want it.

...I wish it was as simple now...

...So I kissed him that time. And it was good.. from my point of view now, of course, it had been _great_...But I didn't think so at the time. I thought it was weird and gross and so strange to do something I'd never done before so fleetingly. I didn't understand why a guy like Slade would even _want_ to kiss me. I _still_ don't- I have no _idea_ why Slade does what he does, and with _me _of all people.

But.. if he's feeling the same things right now that I'm feeling for him, then I have a pretty good guess.

I take his bait and tilt my head the opposite way of his, pushing and licking past his lips until I find his tongue waiting in his mouth. It's wet and hard and the first thing I think to do is to lick it with long, soft strokes of my own, as tenderly and slow as I possibly can, over and over. I move my head a bit, . My heart pounds harder for a split-second, expecting punishment for messing up kissing- but conversely, Slade makes a deep, throaty mewling sound at my mistake. And instead of hurting me like I feared, he begins to rub my back in short, comforting circles.

I feel something warm pool around in my chest.. it feels good, it feels like fireworks are going off in my heart. I let out a soft exhale against Slade's lips at the feelings I have, and he begins to kiss me very gently and very slowly. He keeps rubbing my back, feeling his warm hand beyond the clothes I'm wearing- and if I wasn't afraid of moving my arms, which are, beyond my consciousness, still in semi-bareable pain, they would be around his strong neck, resting on his wide shoulders; but being within his arms is enough.

I start to kiss him back, shyly exploring him as he does me, until our heads start to gradually bob as we take turns suckling eachother, the damp friction between us something I never want to stop. After a long time of kissing he takes a deep breath and breaks the kiss, our mouths making a small sound as they abruptly part from eachother. Slade releases me from holding me in his arms, withdraws, and unexpectedly pushes me backwards- and I end up falling down on my back against the soft sheets and pillows resting against the head board of his bed.

I open my eyes, blinking and testing my eyesight as if I were someone leaving a dark room and entering pure sunlight- and to my relief, I'm not dizzy anymore. Slade's already leant backwards on his hands, and I'm both nervous and strangely excited about the way he looks. He's got a smile on his face that communicates both smugness and good-naturedness impossibly at the same time. His hair and his over all person look like he's been through hell and back again, and the underside of his eye has an even darker, thicker circle under it than usual, the swelling also evident beneath his black eyepatch.. and considering that he's a raging insomniac, it must mean he's been incredibly stressed out. But Slade? The ice-cool guy who never loses control over anything but his temper? Unlikely...

Either that, or he's been horribly upset with something. In fact, the bottom of his eyelids are also slightly puffy and a slightly reddened color, like he's been crying for hours.

Slade, crying... is it even possible? Part of me doubts that he can even feel that amount of sorrow.. despite how, admittedly, my point of view of Slade has changed drastically, I still don't believe he could be anything but calculating, condescending, strict, angry or sexual. It's the only things I know of him...

But the rest of him.. definitely isn't bad to look at. He's naked from his hips up, a towel dangling right below his hip-bones. All of his legs, from his streamlined calves to his thick but slightly toned thighs, are exposed. It feels weird to see so much flesh of a grown man, and my eyes divert themselves quickly away before they can stare or focus anymore intently upon him- nor peak at the shadowed place between his legs underneath the towel. Part of me thinks this silly, since I have seen him naked before now.. My mind automatically flashes back to when we were in the shower together the last time.. but then, that time, I _had_ been trying to stare at the walls of the shower stall more than I did him...

"Good morning" He says, tipping his head back as if to get a better look at me. He adds smoothly after a pause, "..Sleeping beauty.."

I look up at him, speechless- and I notice his eyes have drifted to a very particular place about me.

I lower my head and look down at myself and realize all that I'm wearing is an oversized, slightly rutted and wrinkled black robe, obviously belonging to Slade himself, that has come loose around me due to the fact that it's proportionally three times too big for me- and is completely opened in the front and gives anyone, especially Slade, a very perfect view of my everything.

"Ah!" I let out in surprise, blushing madly, seeking to cover myself- but the moment I try to move one of my hands to do so, all the pain shoots back from one of my wrists and sends tears springing to my eyes.

"Ow!" I immediately don't care what Slade sees of my body- the sudden, staggering pain of trying to move my arm makes me forget for a few seconds that I'm entirely exposed to Slade as I try to put my wrist down back into a more comfortable position. Now I'm assured that both of my wrists are injured and quite possibly both of my ankles.

Slade eyes me curiously and then leans across the bed towards me; My cheeks are on fire as I feel his eyes raking across me- embarassed so badly at being almost completely naked- and knowing now that I looked this way all the time he was just kissing me and holding me moments ago- and I try my best to inch away from him and to close my thighs as well as I can without hurting my injuries any further. I watch Slade eye me up and down, a small grin of satisfaction forming on his face at me.

I flinch away when his hands reach out to touch me as he purrs, "As much as I enjoy watching you squirm around half-nude in my clothes, please allow me..." and with that he grabs the sides of the robe and wraps it around me, tucking me snuggly within the warm albeit wrinkled attire. He does this swiftly, with no unesicary touches, and leans back to where he was sitting.

Was he being... considerate...?

"Th..." dumbfounded by the look Slade's now giving me, "Thank you..." I stammer, and my cheeks grow hot as I realize the very complicated look on Slade's face. He's just staring at me, but not in the heated, somewhat perverted way he usually does- and not looking down on me... he's looking straight into my eyes, and the way he's looking at me and the fact that he even _is _looking at me makes my eyes dart down to stare down my nose at the bed sheets.

"Why, " I gulp, "Why are you looking at me like that?" I try to sound as not-disobedient as I possibly can.

I try to look up at him and his face looks completely alien to me- a new expression that I've never seen before and can't even comprehend. He's smiling- smiling into me, and he almost looks like... a parent. Like someone who wants to protect me.. there's still hardness in his face, like there always will be, but there's also a melted softness within it that allows his eyes to... look relieved.

_Happy_...? About me...?

"Robin..." He says- gently- and his voice is _filled_ with emotion for once.. but it's all so weird that I don't even understand quite what he's feeling or what he's thinking. Usually it's easy to guess what he's doing- it's the _why_ of his actions that usually puzzles me about Slade in these sort of instances... but right now, I'm so confused my head is already getting dizzy again. Is this all just a dream or can it actually be happening?

His hand trails out and gestures for me to come closer to him.

And something inside of me pushes the suspicion I have down a cliff and my own.. _happiness_... fills its gap and gets me excited. More kissing maybe?

I set my hands down to crawl towards him..

.. I put down my hand, bracing my weight on it for only a second--

--And something _pops_, slipping out of place- tendons and other internal things moving farther than they should.

Lights flashes in front of my eyes for several seconds, splotching my vision with fire-cracker sparks, and before I can truly comprehend whats happening-

-Sudden, agonizing pain is _skyrocketting_ from my wrist, shooting through all of my veins, up my arm and beyond. Tears spring to my eyes, and I just shake and quiver inside my skin because it feels _disgusting_, whatever just happened. My head is swimming with confusion at what just happened, and I reason to myself that the bones must be broken somehow, but- I've never had such a thing happen to me that they were so damaged that they actually _moved around_ inside my own arm.

I cry out in pain, letting off arm and beginning to fall because of it. Slade moves forward and is there to catch me, my head landing to rest on his shoulder with a thud. In the moment I collapsed, I saw his face, and on it was plastered like wet cement a crooked expression- but I can't tell just what it was about.

My wrist up to my elbow feels like it's made out of _molten lava_ and it hurts _so much _I can barely _stand_ it. Every nerve ending pulsing with heat while my bones are still stuck in their abnormal positions, pushing against the skin from inside.. it feels like it's made of jelly, but flashes of pain that chorus with my heartbeat in waves that spread through my body from that spot, until they reach my face and my eyes and pulse in my brain-

..And before I know it I'm pushing away from Slade and ducking me head over the side of the bed, vomiting bile onto the floor while tears now gush freely from my eyes. My throat contracts several times, and the soreness I felt within it is only more exaggerated now.

I keep my head hung over the side of the bed, wondering dizzily what just happened. Wondering why I'm so messed up, why apparently my bones don't fit right... they move around.. my throat is raw.. The arm I moved feels like it's disintigrated and all that's left is the veins, pulsing as though someone set off fire crackers in my circulatory system. My ankles and my other wrist feel like they're burning up while the rest of my body feels strangely absent of warmth; clammy, and I'm beginning to grow a cold sweat as I heave for some calming breath that isn't there.

..I just woke up and I'm this way and.. there's no one here but me and Slade...

With dull, hazy clarity that comes with stinging pain clouding my judgement, albeit- but I _remember_... it started when Slade talked me into getting into the shower with him. We took our clothes off-... he was touching me and it felt _good_, and I remember wanting to go _further_.. further with _Slade_.

_The alternative..?_

...He asked me to take my mask off, and out of respect and probably, admittedly, _lust_... maybe adoration...I agreed. It wasn't like I was particularly in a very convincing position to refuse at the time, naked and dripping and very much vulnerable and under Slade's sexual spell... and after all, Slade showed me his face a long time ago, so I reasoned that it was just common courtesy to show _him_. So I took off my mask for my master, revealing to him who I really am, and maybe.. how I really _feel_.. and then...

-And then-..

Then...

..What happened...?

-I got knocked unconscious. I recall that it was at the exact moment Slade looked into my eyes. Was it Slade that did it? Did he do the same thing he did to me the first time I took a shower here? The old knock-out gas coming from his mask trick?

Why would he do that if... If I'd wanted to then, why'd he...? There was no mask around. It was just us- naked-.. but...

Maybe he put something in the water..?

It doesn't seem very plausible...

...And it doesn't seem possible that Slade would still be up to doing something so underhanded after I admitted I wanted to... to be with him in _that way_. I mean, Slade has shown me _some_ kindness in the past, hasn't he? He led Bruce to believe that I'd been under mind control when I was practicing kissing Slade after he'd wrapped up my leg wound...

And just a few minutes ago.. that _look_ on his face... that look of... _affection_... it doesn't seem possible that he could do something so cruel when he'd been so gentle and caring only minutes ago...

And then after passing out in the shower, I remember waking up a while later laying on Slade's bed- this very one- only vaguely aware of where I was. Slade told me to stay, or not to move, or to wait for him, or _something_... And then he left the room, and the moment he did, I fell asleep in his wake- passed out again.

From the little memory I can gather from the perhaps less than two minutes I spent awake that moment, I can recollect Slade's face- distraught, but _happy_... in the same way he was just now... like he hadn't been expecting me to wake up and was surprised and relieved that I did.

Why...?

In a split second, everything clicks and I finally put it all together. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out.

I just don't want to think that he'd...

That he'd...

After all that's happened..

...It's so simple. Why didn't I know it would happen? Slade's a grown man. An experienced, actively sexual older man who could have any other person he wants. It all makes sense in a final sort of nail-in-the-coffin-feeling...

The way I see it, he wants things from me I don't even understand yet, but... I understand enough to know that Slade probably got really frustrated when we took the shower together, with me being so inexperienced and docile and prudish.. he got tired of waiting for me to let him have...sex with me, so he used the sleeping gas trick he did the first time and...

But Slade's words from that moment echo in my head still...

_"'..But I won't do that yet... Not here, not now... That is a moment I would very much like to savor, and only when you're willing...'"_

Should I not have believed those words..? Should I not have counted on them...? Sure, he'd pin me down and unbuckle my belt and wrestle me.. he'd even touch me, give me his "rewards".. but in the end, we never did the.. the big thing. We never did what I could tell Slade really _really_ wanted to do... we never went so far that we could go backwards...

Was it because..

Did nothing intimate happen between us because Slade didn't _let_ it happen..? Was he actually holding himself back all along, for my sake..? With that in mind..

..If I think of it that way, then it's even _more _likely that he... because he was _ready_ to have sex with me.. it was right after.. Batman.. it was right after the Batman incident and I expected a really big "reward" after that... even though I was shy and scared, in my mind, I was ready to be with Slade in more ways than one, even though I still don't completely understand what.. and Slade... he was ready to be with me that way too, and all of his patience and waiting was about to pay off...

He must have been upset the whole time because I wasn't completely giving in willingly.. I still had reservations, and he probably didn't like that, and so.. he probably made me fall asleep with an agent in the water, and.. he was already really turned on, so...

_"'Robin... if you honor me with a kiss, I'll promise not to 'harm' you...'"_

But I just can't believe that he'd... after all that's happened so far...

That Slade would.. that Slade...

I wipe my mouth on my sleeve, staring at the coppery puddle on the floor below me. I shift through the myriad of painful, brash conclusions, of the confounding 'what if's' of what could have transpired while I was unconscious, the second, third, and fourth guessing myself in circles, confirming and disproving myself... trying to sift through the maybes and probablys, but they all slip around muddily in my mind like sand through dry fingers, and I can't focus on anything but the nauseous nervous spasming in my stomache that's making me want to puke several more times over.

I feel the bed shift a bit and Slade's hand is touching my shoulder, softly- and he says in a comforting- and if I weren't seething with shame and anger and sadness to analyze it more- _sincere_ tone of voice, " Robin.. I'll take you to the infirmary.."

-but the thought of him touching me at all right now makes me want to puke _twenty_ times over.

I start to shake like a leaf under his touch.

I imagine that same touch, with a certain amount of disgust- him ontop of an unconscious me on the shower floor-...

And his voice, so deceivingly gentle, "Come on.. we need to look at your wounds.."

Not thinking, I yank my shoulder as hard as I possibly can to get his hand away from me- and before I know it I'm rolling off the side of the bed to desperately get away from him. But the moment my foot hits the ground and my weight attempts to be supported, I feel the same nerve-exploding pain that I felt in my wrist, and I lose my balance- falling to the floor on my tail bone, knocking my head against the surface of the metal door.

I look up and Slade is staring at me with a new mixture of emotions on his face -frustration.. but mostly just confusion, and his ignorant look, and the unperceptive and uncharacteristic vulnerability that lies within it makes me almost want to believe that he didn't do what I _know _he did... almost.

"Robin," He says strongly, "_What_ are you doing?"

He starts to get up from the bed and I scream.

He stops dead still, his eye widening.

My breath comes faster now, plastering myself as well as I can to the door and as far away from him as humanly possible.

"Robin," Even more stern, losing his very generous patience, "You're only going to make your injuries worse if you keep on this way."

"Yeah!?" I hysterically whine, nearly snarling at his hypocracy at trying to help me when it was him who wounded me in the first place, "Who was the one who made them!?"

This strikes Slade, and I see him flinch away from me.. the look on his face tells me everything I need to know.

"You _did_ do it... " The realization of it begins to burn in my already aching throat, and the feeling of nausea, of an impending end, still sits placently in my stomach like a virus in full bloom.

Slade doesn't say anything in response, just stares. I shut my mouth shut in a fine line to keep anything else from spilling out of it- words or otherwise. I stare at him, right into his eyes as he is me, and I try to sort out his expression- if he feels remorse, even feels a little bad about what he did- but his face is stone-like and unemotional, a blank look coming from his hypocritcal blue eye and perfectly no trace of attachment for me on his person what so ever.

Despair lodges itself in my throat and a sick feeling fills my stomache and every part of me, an almost dizzying feeling of nausea and emotional pain, beating hard in my chest and making me sweat.

_He doesn't care. He doesn't care. He doesn't care. Nobody cares...!_

I feel so small compared to Slade- miniscule, unconsequential in the presence of my Master, dimunitive and sickly helpless, just like when I was knocked out and all alone. For a moment, though, I thought I was alright; when I woke up and Slade was there, I felt... _relieved_. I knew somebody at least cared about what happened to me, even in the slightest. I even got hopeful; hoping that he _did _care, that he'd purposely been sitting beside me, waiting for me to wake up...

How stupid and big-headed of me. I should know already that Slade doesn't have feelings like that, and he _certainly_ doesn't care about my well-being. He's been the very source of my pain since I became trapped here, so why do I even hope for something different...? I've learned the hard way that Slade doesn't feel sentimental about anything. Not about killing Batman, not about using Sweet Lili, or even his own butler Wintergreen _abandonning_ him. Why did I possibly think I was any different..?

I got excited- after being so scared and alone, I was happy to have Slade near me... but now I realize that it's no different than before. I'm still alone. No one is on my side, not even Slade. There's nobody, nothing left for me but this cold life where even my Master doesn't mind if I die.

We're just staring at eachother, both sitting on the bed- one wearing a towel and one wearing a bath robe, one big and strong and one tiny and made of nothing but shaking nerves- but both look like we've both died and have already begun crumbling apart and deterioarating into nothing: me more so than him, I'm sure.

But in the back of my mind, a tiny part of me feels as if Slade's coldness right now seems.. rehearsed. Maybe even forced. It's wishful thinking at best, but.. just a feeling..

I take a deep breath. I raise my hand for him to see and observe, letting it sag limply to its side upon its broken wrist, the skin around it wrinkling with stress while it lies at its side at a crooked angle, like something out of an old zombie movie. "Why did you do this..?" I ask, my voice coming out louder than a want it to be- I almost want to cover my mouth afterwards, but I don't for fear of seeing what's happened to my other hand.

Slade looks at me and then my wrist, his eye wide in a dumb-founded expression like he doesn't know what to say. So even Slade doesn't have a witty retort for every occasion? He gets swept off his feet and thrown for a loop? His eye keeps going from my face back to wrist, back and forth and back and forth, until after a few moments he turns his head away, letting some of his overgrown bangs cover his face. "Don't raise your voice to me..." The way he says hints at anger, at resentment- but more of a dampening of himself, of him feeling.. _bad_. Not _sorry_- just- negativeness all about him, even more than usual. It looks like it hurts him to look at me.

My face crumples into a frown and I find it steadily harder and harder to handle the menutia of emotions and thoughts that are running through my head like speeding cars, most of them finding disaster by either crashing into eachother or into the walls of my skull, like a bird flying into a glass window pane. I feel like if I don't get out this anger, this regret, somehow, _any_ way, I might explode- both mentally and physically.

So I let it out, not thinking about the consequences of my actions. Of my words. Forgetting about all the times Slade's punished me in the past for just opening my mouth when he didn't want me to. All the times he's punished me, and all the times I've messed up. Like the time when, the day after he made me kiss him, I was so distracted that in the middle of training he slammed me in the face with his bo staff, and subsequently knocked out one of my teeth. Or the time when I stole from the Wayne Tech Building and all I got in return was Slade practically dislocating my arm from the socket.

Yes, for the first time in a long time, I speak my mind without thought to the dangers- pushed so far over the edge that I don't even remember Slade's omnipotent hold over me in all ways. I just don't care to think about that right now.

I'm already falling apart, anyway.

I feel small tears seeping from my sore eye sockets, slipping down my cheeks as I begin to cry to him, "Why not!? You don't treat me as an equal, yet you made me believe that you actually cared about my feelings- that you wanted to do it with _me_!- and you just throw that away and give up even when I wasn't ready and you--!!"

Tears build up in my eyes and my throat and pressure flownders in my head and makes the injuries in my wrists and ankles feel like nothing. I start to sob to myself and I can't even wipe my eyes without hurting myself.

Slade meanwhile looks flabbergasted, confused, disorientated- and he looks _concerned_. He starts to get off the bed to come towards me, maybe to help me, most likely to hit me, and I scream at the top of my lungs in the middle of my wheezing and hiccups and tears.

Slade stops, frozen, looking at me like he wants to _help _me, but all I see is that hypocritcal glint in that one eye- how can he look like he cares after what he did to me..?

"Don't come any closer!! Don't act like you care anymore when you don't- just- don't _ever_ touch me _again_!"

Slade bites his lip for a moment, observing me with hesitant interest. Like a child viewing a dangerous animal at the zoo- always with the half-thought in the back of their mind that it might get loose from its cage.

I press my soggy face into the side of the door and sob out hysterically, "I'm not worth anything to you if you can just knock me unconscious and do whatever you want to me. Don't act like if I'm willing matters to you anymore since it_ doesn't_!!! Just do what you've got to do and let me _die _already..!!" My voice cracks like I'm knee-deep puberty and my throat heaves to accommodate the screaming.

And Slade is now staring at me with a completely taken-aback, dismayed expression, his single eye widening at me in disbelief at what I just said; like the sort of look you get from someone when they realize you've said something incredibly stupid or foolish. His mouth is partially agape, speechless, and along with his flabbergasted look is also a hint of hurt in his face as his eye bores a hole into my wet, runny, disgruntled face.

"You think I..?" He leaves his thought open, but its cemented to both of us exactly what we both know.

I nod enthsiastically, cutting him off from finishing his sentence with my own hysterical answer, "You knocked me unconscious and... and..you _raped_ me..! And you broke my wrists and my ankles so if I woke up, I wouldn't be able to get away...!" The thought of Slade doing that brings fresh tears to my eyes, and I curl away, wanting so badly to run away- but all I can do is curl up on my body in to a foetal position, whimpering to myself and hiding my face against my knees.

Slade's quiet, but I can feel him still staring at me, calculating, thinking to himself and regarding me with the crystalline clarity of his point of view- but it's not use to me. I hear him sigh, shakily to himself. A sad sound- and when I hear it, my heart skips because it scares me that he's capable of such a demure sound- _Slade!_

I close my eyes, mashing my face desperately against my knees to keep myself from screaming anymore when I hear Slade get up from the bed- I hear his padding foot steps come closer until he's right above me, walking past- I shiver and shake, afraid at even the notion of this man touching me, of any physical contact with the person who I believe brought me up and then tore me back down- who made me worship him and then took the dim amount of trust that created and crumbled it in his grip as though it were nothing..

But what did I expect? It was Slade. He's a villain. A criminal. Immoral. He doesn't care about things the way normal people do. He plays cruel games. He enjoys other people's pain- he doesn't place value in things, in people- he uses them until there's nothing left of them, feeding on weaker people to get what he wants.

and I was stupid and naive to think that after all this time that he'd put value in me..

His words all along were just lies...

His kisses, his touch... there was nothing special within them..?

They were just a show- something for Slade to do when he was bored. A game to see how long I could last before I gave in to him. And when I dissapointed him, he broke the rules and cheated his way to the prize.

And as I hear and feel him walk next to me, I expect him to hit me- to grab me by my clothes, hoist me up, shake me and slap some sense into me, like he usually does. The more consequential Slade who wouldn't feel bad about knocking out one of my teeth if it was simply to get a point across. Slade isn't one to tolerate things like this- things like emotions, like throwing fits, like having feelings and expectations- he's supposed to grab me, punch me in the face, jerk me off, and send me to bed and in the morning I'll have forgotten why I was upset in the first place. He doesn't account for feelings- he has none of his own! He doesn't understand someone like me, someone who gets attached to survive. But Slade needs nobody. Not Wintergreen, not Sweet Lili.. I should have grasped the hint from what I witnessed with those two; the casting aside, the way they got emotionally involved when in reality their feelings meant nothing to him.

I guess... I got attached, without even realizing it..

...and Slade didn't.

Nothing to him..

Slade, holding his towel loosely over himself, steps past me and leaves, yanking open the door behind me and stepping over my curled-up, quivering form. I hear his soft foot steps dissipate in the hall, slowly in a perpetual repeating echo until they grow so faint that I can barely hear them above my own heartbeat. I think I hear a locker door slam, but it's the last sound I hear before no sound but my own ragged breathing remains.

I lay there for what seems like half an hour, staring at the floor.. staring across the room at the puddle of vomit, at the bedraggled bed sheets hanging off the side of the mattress and pooling onto the floor towards me.. and I expect at any minute to hear him walking down the hallway and back to me.

I imagine to myself how it would happen- instead of the shallow footsteps I heard, I would hear new, loud, metal-sounding ones- Slade would rip the door open, completely dressed in his gleaming metal and black uniform with his bo-staff hanging at his waist- wearing his two-colored mask that hid all of his emotions so perfectly and made him so very intimidating to me in every sense of the word... he'd stomp inside, grab me by the throat.. he'd rough me up a bit, throw me on the bed, against a wall, and tell me to suck it up... he'd comment on how much of a disgrace I am, of how weak, how pitiful I am compared to him, of how disapointed in me he is and that I can be better.

... and I'd find a way to get through it. Through the pain, the injuries, the self doubt, my doubt in Slade- it would all be pushed aside and ignored and somehow I'd get through it and it would make me stronger.

I wait and wait, listening to my own lessening breaths, but no triumphant clanging footsteps come for me.

And for no probable reason, I know- I _feel _that he's gone.

And I'm left in drumming pain, humiliated, confused, alone...

... and strangely disapointed.

FIN (To be continued)

So yes, Robin's an emotional wreck.. Like I said, I don't think I did a good job of expressing how he feels, so please don't be too angry with him. It'll all become clear later. And Slade pretty much gave up without a fight, which you can guess has left Robin and maybe even some of you very confused. I think both characters have very reasonable feelings and reasons for what they're doing, but that will come into play much more next chapter as well as the reprecussions of Robin and Slade's divergence. Not to mention that poor Robin can't walk and can't move his wrists without excruciating pain..

Next chapter is from Slade's POV, some of this chapter rewritten from his Point of view, along with where he went after leaving. And I'm totally not going to reveal to you that it will introduce a new character. (No, not an OC. This character was in the animated series and was a main character. Can you guess who it is??)

P.S: I realized too late that I switched between saying 'eyes' and 'eye to describe Slade. Yes, I know saying 'eyes' is incorrect, but I can't possibly think of where to start to correct it. So any errors, as well as


	19. Post Orgasmic Chill

The Bird and His Cage

What if the Titan's rescue of Robin at the end of Apprentice pt.2 had failed? Chronicals Apprentice episodes and beyond from different POVs. SxR slash, you've been warned. Flaming will be giggled at. Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Disclaimer: I.don't.own.Teen Titans! So don't take my material possessions. I like my material possessions...

Notes: I haven't updated in quite a long time have I? More than half a year... DAMN. I actually felt quite out of it and school was getting to me pretty badly- and summer just became much worse... basically a rough period of life that didn't any have room for writing fanfiction. I didn't think I was going to finish this chapter and I didn't know if I would decide to update this again.. but now I have a little more time and this fanfiction is very important to me, so I'll be continuing. Reviews are appreciated and loved.

This chapter is all about Slade! I just loved writing it for some reason and I bet you'll enjoy it. Maybe because he's naked for the entire thing? Probably. In fact, I'm sure that's the reason.

And no, this isn't Divergence pt.2. Next chapter. I hope. This chapter's name was borrowed by an album name by Skunk Anansie.. but it makes a lot of sense. 

-edited-

Peace!

_Slade's POV_

I wake up with a start, my heart pounding in my ears- bolting up-right, covered in freezing sweat, my eyes wide and my fingers shaking with a start. I search anxiously around, on immediate guard, and slowly become accustomed to the dark, small room. I'm sitting on a bed, where I had been sleeping previously- feeling not at all comfortable, with foreign-smelling sheets and pillows and an air of unfamiliarity around me.

Where am I?

I find myself trying to concentrate, forcing myself to breathe slowly and evenly. I wipe the sweat off my brow and move my hair away from my face, my chest now rising and falling in a much more relaxed way. I look down at myself and realize with surprise that I'm completely nude, covered only by a thin sheet now resting at my knees.

I look around the room with a new sense of apprehensive curiosity, my head groggy and humming dumbly. I'm in either a hotel room or an apartment- and if my head were on straighter, I could probably tell the difference. The more I try to concentrate on things, like the television across the room or the framed paintings on the wall or the shaded window beside me, the more my head starts to hurt. A sharp pain like a migraine but also a fair amount of dizziness and nausea.

I haven't felt this in a while. A hang over.

I bite my lip and try to get up from the bed, stumbling slightly as my feet touch the soft-shaggy-rug floor with palpable unsureness. I brace my hand against the nearest wall and inch myself across the room slowly but surely, until I make it to the closest door that I can reach. I open it and hit the light-switch and immediately flinch away at the sudden exposure to illumination. After forcing my eyes to get used to the darkness earlier, even opening my eyes in the painfully artificially lightened room is a nauseating and painful experience. I try my best to look around and focus my eyes; I normal bathroom, completely spotless and mundane; obviously not lived in, so most likely I'm in a hotel room of some sort.

My head is thumping with pain and I groan loudly, leaning against the nearest wall in fatigue and staring at myself in the mirror. I try to think about what happened to put me in this situation but all it does is make my head hurt. All I can think about is where Robin is and whether or not he's alright. I try to think back; back to a while ago, and suddenly I can remember Robin's voice screaming at me, angry with me, crying, sobbing- hating me.

Robin...

Before I can even think to keep it down I feel a guttural, debilitating upheaval in my stomach and suddenly I'm vomiting my guts into the spotless ivory sink, hunched over and holding it's marble sides as though I'm sea-sick on a rocking boat-deck.

When the moments passed I feel a small tear roll down my angular cheek and I wipe it away quickly, sniffling and panting and trying to get my head straight. With my head still down I grope beside me and find a single white towel hanging on the wall. I use it to wipe off my mouth and then I rinse off my face. There are no toothbrushes, but a miniature portion of mouth wash sits at the corner of the sink and I use the entire bottle in earnest.

Feeling slightly more settled than before but still trying to overcome the annoying buzz in my head, I regulate my breathing and find a level of composure. With a feeling of sadness and guilt, I dejectedly rinse out the vomit-splattered sink and throw the dirty towel away.

I'm left alone, quiet, leaning against the sink and looking at my reflection in the glossy, expensive looking mirror. It beats the small, rusty, cracked old one I have hanging in my locker back at the base, and for the first time in a long time I see my face in crisp, crystalline clarity. Too bad- I look like shit. Shaken up. Not myself. Like a beaten, tortured puppy that's been kicked and abused for far too long. Dark circles under my eyes and sickly pale. Just... _fucked up_.

I stare at my face and all I can see are Grant and Joey and Robin's faces all reflected together in my own; how Grant's face looked so identical to mine, like a childhood replica of myself- tough-angry-misled and rejected by the world and _betrayed_ by his own father just as I had been. I can barely remember his face now.. faded after years of being apart. Just that it looked exactly like mine used to look..

No. I've betrayed everyone. Grant, Joey, Robin, Wintergreen.. They've all been hurt because of me.

I stare at the now clean sink and think and think and try my damndest to remember what happened all this time. Thinking about Robin and Joey.. About how Joey stole Robin's body from him and used it against me. He baited me.. he wanted so much to live again. To live the life I took from him.

But it wasn't the same. It wasn't the sweet, gentle Joey I knew and took advantage of. This one was... still the same person in essence but malformed by his soul living inside mine for so many years, hiding. I suppose he truly hated me and wanted revenge, to blackmail me with Robin, who has so far captured all of my attention. He felt jealousy, assuming I was, whether consciously or not, using Robin as a replacement for _him_.

Even I cannot deny whether or not that is true or not.. not anymore. Not with all that's happened. All I know was that for ten years, all I had thought about was how I'd give anything and everything to have my son back in my arms. The son I'd loved.. romantically.

I felt such strong feelings come to the surface after all these years when I found out that Joey was still alive. I was ready to _let_ him have Robin's body for himself, at a point- to have the old Joey back with me, back in my arms, to try to make up to him what I did, but.. it wasn't the same. It wasn't fair to Robin. It didn't go the way I wanted it to, and after all- the same as Joey had changed, I had changed as well. I wasn't the same man who had loved Joey so long ago.

Joey died again and it wasn't any easier to handle than the first time it had happened.

He'd found peace, but it didn't make me feel any better.

I'm not sure how to cope with it anymore. Why did it have to happen to him twice? Why am I allowing myself to become affected by it now?

I'd never let the sorrow stop me, not for ten years...Of course I remembered him, mourned him in my own way.. I knew there was no one on Earth who'd been more in love with Joey than I had. No one had treasured him more than me. I regretted my actions, and it hurt- but I always managed to shove my feelings back into the crawl-space of my mind, left alone to be forgotten and ignored for the sake of sanity...and life still went on.

But what I feel right now.. this pain.. this sorrow. It's so crippling that it's overwhelming every part of me. It makes me sweat, makes me shake, makes me unable to breathe. Something inside me has _changed_ somehow. I can't brush things off.. I can't ignore or lock things up in my heart anymore. I'm no longer _efficient_...

I sigh to myself heavily, suffering in the defeat of my own thoughts. Thinking about it all will just make my head hurt more and right now it feels like it's splitting in half. My hand wanders to rest on my stomach, the tight muscles tensing up at the contact. Hungry. Thirsty. I stare at myself with disgust in the mirror at how weak I feel. Now, more than ever, I just want to be a machine... dependent on nothing but myself. Self sufficient. Not needing nor wanting anybody's care or affection or warmth, not Joey's, not Robin's, not anybody's.

..Just by myself.

Feeling unkept, I step into the shower and let the water heat up. I notice that the water feels slightly dulled. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but someone with my heightened senses is immediately able to tell. Did someone take a shower before I did? Who was here besides me?

I turn on the shower head and gratefully let the water beat down on me, letting out a soft sigh. My arms braced in front of me on the shower wall and my head lowered in thought, I try to think back to what I could have possibly done to get myself to this place and this situation. I was obviously drunk.. reckless. Did I not care what happened to myself? I'm sure it would take near poisoning depths of alcohol to get myself so intoxicated that I would throw away all thought, all reason, so that the next day I would forget everything that had happened prior... Why did I want to do that?

Think...

Washing myself, I glance over and see a pink bottle of shampoo. It's not the type a hotel would provide itself- something store bought- special, for a girl. Interested, I turn to take the bottle in my hand and read the cover aloud. "Specially formulated for blondes." The bottle's been opened and a third of it has already been used up- suds still linger at the bottom contours of the bottle. Someone must have used it this morning before I woke up...

The thought of a stranger being around me whilst I slept bothers me. But even more so, I wonder what I could have been thinking to let my guard down so much when so many people- police or otherwise- would love to find me weakened, inebriated, and disheartened. Who wouldn't have taken advantage of that?

Blonde..._blonde_.. something about that is jogging things in my brain, clicking- like a finger-snap, like someone flicking on the light switch of a darkened room. Feelings of dejected amnesia swim around inside my skull, teasing me, mocking me, dangling memories over my head but not letting me have a single bite.

I lean my head against the tiled wall of the shower and groan and sigh. The warm, steamed feeling of the water begins to relax me and relieve me of some of the pain in my head a bit. My mind clears.. calms. I sort through my thoughts on automatic, as though flipping through a filing cabinet; I remember as far back as when Joey had passed on and Robin was just coming to. I'd kissed him as he was waking; I'd been relieved to have him back, that I'd chosen the right boy. I felt.. _feelings_ I'd felt for Robin for a while now were coming to a head, and as we kissed I was sure we would be alright, that after everything that had happened, Robin would be alright.

But I was wrong. To save Robin, I had to get Joey to relinquish control over his body. I'd threatened him with rape, and twisted his wrists and ankles to near-breaking to make him recede.

I was so lost in the moment of having him back that I'd disregarded that fact. And so, Robin woke up; shocked and frightened and in pain because of the injuries I'd inflicted on his body. It didn't help that he woke up myself beside him dressed in nothing but a towel, looking quite pleased with myself... I'm sure it was easy to take the situation in the wrong way when in such blinding pain as he'd been.

Robin believed... that I'd caused him to lose consciousness and.. took _advantage_ of him.

Understandably, he got scared. He had a nervous breakdown and cried and screamed and said a lot of things that hadn't made much sense- and honestly, it hurt me to think that Robin would actually believe that I'd done that to him, despite the evidence clearly going against me. It hurts to know that Robin didn't take me for my word, but I don't fault him for it; after all, how easy is it to trust the word of someone who threatened your friends with death to keep you by their side? I'd asked Robin to finish off his near-dead mentor just for my amusement... Of course Robin's thoughts would lead back to distrust, even reverting back to pure hatred as he'd felt almost a year ago.

I sigh unhappily, resting my cheek against the warm, hard shower wall. But even now, for some reason I don't yet understand, I want him beside me.. with me. Close to me. My heart sinks when I think of how I've hurt him. I miss him now that he's not within my reach, now that I cannot touch him. I've never felt sorry for the things I've done to him until now.. now that it's come to this.

Perhaps I'm just becoming weak. Forgetting my purpose.

My purpose? Yes.. what was my purpose?

To have an heir. My two sons are missing and dead... that was the general, underlying purpose at the beginning. I wanted the perfect student, someone young enough that I could teach and take under my wing. To guide. But when I found Robin, the situation changed. The underlying principle was still there, but the feeling changed. We were polar opposites, and so it became my greatest challenge; why would such a pure, superbly well-behaved child like Robin come to serve someone like him?

It was simple. The boy was a challenge, and it just so happened that I liked those.

He was the only one. The only possible choice or candidate. There could be no one else.

Of course there was an instant attraction from day one; I hadn't denied it, but at the same time, I'd promised myself that I wouldn't let it get in the way of things. Of the purpose, the prize, the challenge. There was a greater good and I wouldn't let my peculiar taste in young men upset the plan. It was fun to tease the boy, push and prod him, see how far he could get; it had been fun, even exciting at times to flirt with the boy watch his mutual feelings develop, but there was always something in the back of my mind that kept me from doing all that I'd wanted to do to him, that I'd ached and clamored to do all along, and that was the part of me that wanted the boy to look up to _me_, to eventually trust me to a point. How could I hope to achieve that in the long run if I made him disgusted of me, if I tried to have sex with him.. if I'd raped him?

It would all fall apart right in front of me. It was a balancing act. A struggle between building up to the grand finale or quick, easy satisfaction.

I promised him that I would never do anything unless Robin wanted me to; with no regrets, no fears, no attachments to the past. Though that wasn't necessarily the way I wanted it, it was the way things had to be.

I'd thought that Wintergreen would keep me in line. He'd always been a surrogate father, a partner, a teacher. I knew I'd never get away with anything if Wintergreen was caring for Robin. I'd planned for Wintergreen to be there for him, to bring up Robin in the same way he'd raised me. Where I was strict and punishing, Wintergreen would be generous; where I was a harsh and reprimanding master, Wintergreen would be doting and relatable. Where I would make the bruises and injuries on Robin's body day after day, Wintergreen would help mend them and always be at the child's side for care and assistance.

But Wintergreen was gone now and it was all my fault. But I learned from my mistake, and without him I've had to fill the role of both the disciplinarian and the care-taker. Again, a balancing act that I'm not sure I can handle any longer. My personal feelings are getting in the way of me being strict, of me shaping and molding Robin into the perfect fighter I know he has the potential to be. I'm sure one pout, one frown, one kiss from him would make me melt and faulter, and I can't let that happen.

And Robin, back at the base, yelling.. screaming and crying because of what I'd done to him... because of me...that was too much. I couldn't stand it. The pain he was going through because of what I'd done to him, the crumbling of his trust and the fear of me in his eyes... I couldn't handle it. I had to run away. I couldn't do the balancing act alone anymore. Losing Robin, his trust, I'd been worried about it from the beginning and no matter what measures I'd taken to prevent it, it ended up happening anyway.

I can't control myself anymore. The wanting for the boy, the consummate lust I feel when I see him, it only got worse and worse up until what happened with Joey, and that very event had actually helped nudge my feelings for Robin to the breaking point. It helped me realize that Joey was done, part of the past, and that Robin was part of my future. With Joey out of the picture there was now a kind of room and space inside of me that was suddenly wanting to be filled; despite how I would love to deny it isn't real, the sensation I'm feeling is so strong that I can't stop it.

I'd realized all over again. Robin _was_ the only one. The only. possible. choice.

Have I... fallen for him?

I close my eyes and let the thought sink in. It's humorous to think that before, I would have shrugged these sort of thoughts away as childish and foolish, stupid even, berating myself for them if indeed they even ever crossed my mind in the first place.

Yet...these feelings of yearning for this boy fill me with a guilty sort of happiness that I'd never allowed myself until now.

I know I shouldn't be feeling anything like this. My subconscious is worried sick over it. It reminds me of how I'd also admitted to loving Addie and Joey, and look where it got me. It observes bitterly, "Things like this always end the same with you."

I would love nothing than to be self sufficient... for a long time, I was. I needed no one, and that's the way I liked it. I was a machine and did what I had to do to survive. After Adeline and Joey, after everything, I vowed I would never get attached to anyone again.

But.. something feels different now. And the fear I had of hurting him, of losing him, is overwhelmed by feelings of... _need_ for him..

I think of him now... of his young face, of his pretty deep blue eyes, and his straight, crisp black hair that I want badly to dig my fingers into... his adorably soft, pink lips that dare shyly to be kissed...

I turn so that my back is resting against the shower wall, directly beneath the flow of spraying water. I begin to wash myself again, but this time not with a cloth, but my bare hands. I absent mindedly rub the hard, almost sexual pattern of muscles running down my stomache, enjoying the feeling of my own warm, rough hands.

I think more of Robin, of how small he is.. his tiny shoulders. His small hands. His slender legs.. his thin hips that beg to be held, to be pushed and bruised and ground against..

I remember him, fully and completely... the image of him dripping wet, naked. Panting breathlessly at my touch, his cheeks pink with desire... How could I forget?

After gently touching and giving each muscle of my stomache attention, my hand slides down and I briefly feel the smoothly cut indents of my hip bones right beneath my navel, that trail sensually down to the most intimate part of me. Of its own accord my hand dips lower, finding a familiarly hard dick to wrap its fingers around. I inhale sharply, every muscle in my body tensing and growing hotter at that one gentle touch.

A vague smile forms on my lips, reminded of how Robin's boyhood had been just as small and tiny and humiliated as he'd been. Yet despite himself, guiltily excited and aroused. How adorably apprehensive he'd been in the beginning, biting his lip and avoiding looking at me though he clearly wanted to badly. How easily he'd given up the charade once he saw first-hand what I had to offer him.

I can't help but let my mind wander, wondering what would have happened if things had gone differently. If I hadn't asked him to take off his mask... if we'd never made eye contact.. things would have turned out better.

I'd've kissed him. Touched him...Pleased him... _Fucked him_...

He'd've squirmed underneath me... his arms would have wrapped around my shoulders pleadingly, his little hands clawing at my back. I'd've kissed his lips till they were swollen and pink, pleasuring and cajoling him with delicate touches and nips and kisses till he begged for me. Explored and caressed every inch of his soft, wet little body before lifting his hips and taking him for myself.

I close my eye and my hand is stroking, teasing... the warmth of flesh against flesh becoming almost too much to bare. I moan softly as I caress the underside of my cock, then move my hand gently up and down the shaft.

My other hand reaches up to attend to my chest, beading with shower water and sweat. The memories of Robin only get more detailed, more physical, more explicit, and I want so much for it to be little Robin's soft, supple ass closed tight around my dick rather than my own calloused palms.

"Oh...!" I toss my head back against the shower wall, gasping softly as I lovingly rub and massage the head.. fondling the most sensitive part of my swelling manhood. My breathing becomes faster, my body heat growing warmer and hotter, as the delicious pressure in my lower body builds to new levels. I feel myself begin to leak over my hand, my finger tips growing sticky wet with cum. My hand rushes back down to close around the base while I keep the second hand still teasing and worrying the head, playfully rubbing and coating it in its own velvet white fluid.

I cry out in true ecstacy, feeling as though my legs will buckle at the sensations. I swiftly begin to pump the base of me, gripping as hard as I can without causing pain. My hips move by themselves, rocking back and forth against my closed fist. I lean my head back, moaning and whimpering at the feeling, at the friction, building a swift but careful rhythm.

I go faster, harder; exhaling softly every time my hips roll forward and back, forward and back, humping the closed warm space of my cum-soaked fingers, all of my troubles melting away as if they were nothing in the eyes of that simple animalistic pleasure.

After one last gratuitous thrust I come, groaning breathlessly as my whole body tenses at the waves of pleasure running their course through out. I bite my lip at the perfectly warm and exquisite feeling, my eyes still shut tight as I ride it as long as I can.

But after a few minutes the heat and trembling and excitement is dead. All that remains is the singular sound of running shower water and the lonesome sound of my own harsh breaths. I open my eye and stare up at the ceiling, my vision clouded by spraying shower water and my own wet white bangs hanging soggily in front of my face as the last waves pleasure die out. The shower water's run cold.

Post Orgasmic chill.

Fin! (To be continued..)

Kind of an abrupt end, sorry. Wow. Even Slade gets horny once in a while. So I am totally hating myself for choosing First person to write this entire fic in. But I will deal.. I always wanted Slade to be the one to 'fall head over heals' first in this fic and not Robin, and now I have! Instead of like before when Slade and Robin had mutual 'I don't like you' attitudes but were still somewhat attracted to eachother, now Robin completely distrusts and has forsaken Slade, while Slade now is completely in love with him. It's really kind of sad.. But it _is_ called The Bird and His _Cage_, so I guess it should be expected to go this way.

And it's official: Slade's theme song for this fic is definitely _Protege-Moi _by Placebo. It just fits him so well!

OK, So because this fic has not been updated in half a year, Here is a short recap of what all of the characters are doing, feeling, etc, so as not to be confused, because soon all of the story lines are going to blend together.

STORY RECAP:

Robin: After being body-snatched by Joey, he wakes up with injuries that Slade inflicted on him to make Joey give Robin his body back, only to assume the worst, saying he can never trust Slade again. He is still at the base recuperating the best he can from his injuries.

Slade: Woke up with amnesia only to find himself far away from and rejected by Robin after Joey's body-snatching incident. Is beginning to admit and embrace feelings for Robin.

Wintergreen: After losing contact with Batman, he plans to initiate his back-up plan to conspire with the Titans to do in Slade and save Robin. Having difficulty deciding his loyalty.

Sweet Lili: Pregnant with Slade's child. Despises and is jealous of Robin and wants Slade for herself and will do anything to make it happen.

The Titans: With Cyborg as their new leader now that they believe Robin has betrayed them and is working for Slade, they attempt to save their city (now overrun with criminals and gangs) But have effectively given up on Robin for good.

Yup! Well that's the story so far. And NO, Terra is not going to be a main character. It's just for the next chapter. Sorry I said she'd be in this one, but I didn't take into account that I wanted this segment to happen so early. But I did. So yeah.

Thanks for all the support guys!

And if you read it, review it! It's just the nice, positive thing to do.


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